#this is less elegant than I meant it to be

[hopeyoufindalovelikethis]

Auction Night

Sylus is often seen at auctions—not just for Protocores, but for acquiring the finest paintings, rare weapons, and artifacts that seem to belong in myths. So I began to wonder what it would feel like if, one day, he arrived carrying what he valued most in the world—not an object, but his beloved. Thank you for reading and I’m deeply grateful to share this quiet journey of love with you 🤍

Snyopsis | When Sylus invites you to a midnight auction, you're swept into a world of quiet luxury and deeper affection. Amid priceless bids and velvet gowns, it's not the diamonds or grandeur that steal your breath—but his quiet confession that you're worth more than it all.

Sylus had asked if you’d accompany him to a midnight auction—an exclusive one held at the private club of Linkon’s most luxurious hotel. Sylus rarely asked you to do something for him, so you agreed—even if it meant sacrificing your quiet evening for velvet carpets and champagne toasts. After finishing your work at the Hunter Association HQ, you were surprised to see Sylus waiting at the curb in one of his sleeker models, a dark sedan with polished steel accents. As always, he opened the door for you first, waited until you were seated, and then fastened your seatbelt before circling to his side.

The drive through Linkon was quietly elegant. City lights shimmered against the windows, and your hand rested between you two, only for Sylus’s fingers to find it without needing to look. He didn’t speak much—he rarely did when he was focused—but his thumb grazed yours in gentle intervals, a quiet tether through the noise of downtown traffic.

And when he finally pulled into the grand driveway of one of Linkon’s most elite hotels, his steps around the car were unhurried, purposeful. He opened your door, extended his hand for you to take, and the moment your fingers slid into his, everything else—the people, the lights, the evening itself—felt like a backdrop.

A private valet stepped forward immediately and bowed. Sylus gave him the key with a brief nod. Before you could ask any questions, a tall man in a tailored black suit approached, clearly not hotel staff. His subtle earpiece, sharp posture, and how quickly he bowed before Sylus said everything. The private security—likely hired exclusively for tonight’s event—ushered you both toward the private lift. No check-in. No delays.

Inside the lift, the silence was heavy with anticipation. When the doors opened on the top floor, it revealed not a ballroom, but a sprawling penthouse suite. The kind of place drenched in quiet opulence—candlelit hallways, velvet furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows that opened into the city’s breath.

"Mr. Sylus, your request has been fulfilled," the security informed him as he handed over a sleek access card. "Everything is waiting in the bedroom. Please don’t hesitate to use the secured line on the table if you require anything before the event begins."

And with a subtle bow—measured, respectful, final—he turned and quietly exited, leaving the two of you alone in the penthouse, where silence felt less like absence and more like something sacred waiting to unfold.

You turned to Sylus, your brow raised. "What did you request?"

He only smirked, the corner of his lips tugging upward like a secret was about to bloom. "Nothing scandalous," he murmured, then reached for your hand. "Come with me."

He led you into the bedroom, and what met your eyes made you stop mid-step. Luxurious shopping bags sat in graceful arrangement beside the vanity, each one bearing the mark of a house known only in whispers of excess. Sylus moved with casual grace, peeking inside a few of them before pulling out a deep maroon dress that glowed under the soft lights. He held it up.

"I want you to wear this tonight," he said, not as a request, but as a desire woven with reverence. Then, he stepped closer and offered it to you.

You accepted it with a breath that wasn’t quite steady, your eyes meeting his for a second before you slipped into the bathroom. There, you took your time. You let the hot water of the shower melt away the fatigue of the day. You dried your hair slowly, tied it into an elegant but effortless bun, and took in the makeup he had arranged so carefully in another bag—each shade perfectly suited to your palette. You applied it with care, letting your own reflection slowly turn into something made for this kind of night. When you slipped into the dress, the fabric folding around your figure like it had been made just for you—every drape and tuck artfully enhancing rather than constraining. Finally, you stepped into black heels that made the city lights outside seem even further away.

When you stepped into the living room, Sylus was standing near the window, one hand in his pocket, the other wrapped around a crystal glass—back half-turned. He must’ve heard your footsteps because he turned slowly—and paused. The moment he saw you, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His gaze moved slowly from the curve of your collar to the subtle gather of fabric along your waist, to the slit that traced your thigh. As though he was memorizing a masterpiece.

You stood there, your breath caught somewhere behind your ribs, until finally, he stepped toward you. Then, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a velvet box. You tilted your head slightly as he opened it in front of you. Inside was a necklace—platinum and encrusted with diamonds, coiled in the shape of an ornate serpent with a ruby—the color of his eyes—at its heart.

You gasped softly. “Sylus…”

He stepped behind you and gently brushed your hair aside. “Stay still.”

His hands were steady as he fastened it around your neck. The weight of the piece settled against your collarbone like a promise. When he stepped in front of you again, his gaze lingered—not on the necklace, but on you.

“No one,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “and nothing can compare to your beauty tonight. You are divine."

You blinked, warmth flooding your chest, your hands brushing over the gem now resting near your heart. You wanted to say something, but words never felt quite enough around him.

Moments later, the clock neared midnight.

He extended his hand then, palm open, an invitation. "Shall we?"

You nodded, slipping your fingers into his. The warmth of his touch steadied you as you both headed to the private lift once more, its mirrored walls reflecting the soft gleam of yourself and the quiet power of the man beside you.

•••

Later, seated in the circle of gold light and velvet-draped shadows of the auction floor, you found yourself watching him instead of the items. His posture was relaxed, one arm draped over the back of your seat, his other hand casually raising his bidder’s tag whenever something caught his eye. And, the figure he offered wasn’t just generous—it was outrageous. At least three times the starting price. No one dared counter.

"Sylus,” you whispered, leaning in, your voice low but pointed as he raised his bidder tag again—prompting a wave of silent gasps from the other invited guests. “That’s the third piece you’ve bid triple for. No one even challenged the starting price.”

He chuckled under his breath, turning slightly to glance at you, amusement sparking in his crimson eyes.

“I don’t want anyone in this room thinking I’m broke,” he said, casual as ever. You rolled your eyes gently, but he added, “None of this dents me."

And when he reached for his glass of wine, the diamonds around your neck glinted in the light—just one more reminder that for Sylus, when it came to you, excess wasn’t indulgence. It was instinct.

“Besides,” he said softly, his gaze steady beneath the warm lights, “nothing I’ve spent tonight comes close to what I’ve already gained.”

You tilted your head, a teasing brow raised. “You mean this necklace?”

His lips curved into a slow, knowing smile, and beneath the table, his fingers found yours—light at first, then lingering with purpose.

“No,” he murmured, voice low and certain. “I mean you.”

Your breath hitched softly at his words, caught off guard by the quiet gravity in his tone. The warmth of his hand enclosing yours beneath the table grounded you, the noise of the auction fading into something distant and unimportant.

And as your gaze met his—steady, unwavering—you knew no winning bid, no glint of diamond or gold, could ever outshine the love that settled, deep and certain, between you.

[bnny0rgnz]

A/N: So sorry for not posting consistently, been really busy with school events. But this time, I'm merging 3 chapters into one to make up for all those times I was supposed to be posting, so please enjoy. Again, Sorry!!

The Tempest Effect

Morning drifted softly into Gotham, its sun a weak gold stretching shyly through the haze. The city was still asleep in its more reclusive corners—the ones where shadows lingered even in daylight, and the buildings breathed with secrets. But in a reclaimed warehouse nestled near the waterfront, the stillness had been broken for hours. Inside, the echo of motion bounced off the walls like a heartbeat. That heartbeat was you.

The worn mats beneath your feet were scuffed with the ghosts of repetition. Your muscles burned, but it was a sweet, familiar fire—one you had learned to dance with. You moved in unison with Lucian’s rhythm, his blade cutting the air as he circled you.

“Again,” he said, voice calm but commanding. He wasn’t barking anymore. Not like the early days. His words no longer bit—they guided, molded.

You adjusted your stance and surged forward, eyes locked on the blade in his hand. Wooden, but no less dangerous in the right grip. Yours met it with a twist of your arm, blocking his strike. The thrum of effort pulsed through your body as you followed up with a spinning kick. He caught your leg before it connected, raising an eyebrow.

“Your center of gravity’s off,” he muttered.

“And your hair’s in your eyes,” you countered breathlessly, grinning.

He actually chuckled, short and sharp. “Fair enough.”

From across the mat, Darlene clapped once. “Can we not flirt mid-sparring?” she called, her voice honey-laced with mischief.

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. Lucian turned away to retrieve two staffs from the rack, his usual silence now stretched with something softer. The edge of his jaw held tension—but not from annoyance. He handed you a staff, brushing your fingers as he did. You tried not to react, but the current that shot up your arm made it hard not to.

You looked at him. For a second too long.

“You good?” he asked, tilting his head.

You nodded, pretending to twirl the staff like it was part of a warm-up. “Yeah. Just... zoning out.”

He gave you a look—part skeptic, part fondness. Darlene arched a brow from where she now stretched in the corner, clearly watching with more interest than necessary. You ignored her.

The next round began. Staffs clashed, wooden crack ringing like a drumbeat. Lucian was precise, efficient—his movements honed from years of necessity. Yours were more fluid, artistic even, an extension of the grace ballet gifted you. The two styles collided and complemented, fire meeting water.

Each move was measured, intentional. Sweat clung to your skin in elegant rivulets, your breath moving like waves—rising, falling. Lucian ducked under your strike and used the momentum to sweep your legs. You landed with a soft grunt, blinking up at the flickering lights overhead.

Before you could rise, his hand was offered. His palm, calloused and steady, hovered in front of you like a promise.

You hesitated. Then took it.

As he pulled you up, your faces were a breath apart. You smelled cedar on his skin, maybe the faintest scent of copper and salt. His eyes searched yours, quiet and unreadable. You wondered if he could hear your heartbeat.

“I’ve been meaning to say...” he began, then stopped.

You tilted your head. “What?”

He cleared his throat. “You’ve improved. A lot.”

You blinked, unsure whether the flutter in your chest was from the compliment or the way he said it. Quiet. Like it meant something more.

“Thanks,” you said softly.

Darlene walked by, not-so-subtly smirking as she grabbed her water bottle. “If you two are done making eyes at each other, Lucian promised me a sparring round.”

Lucian sighed. “You're exhausting.”

“I know,” she said brightly.

Before you could rise, his hand was offered. His palm, calloused and steady, hovered in front of you like a promise.

You hesitated. Then took it.

As he pulled you up, your faces were a breath apart. You smelled cedar on his skin, maybe the faintest scent of copper and salt. His eyes searched yours, quiet and unreadable. You wondered if he could hear your heartbeat.

“I’ve been meaning to say...” he began, then stopped.

You tilted your head. “What?”

He cleared his throat. “You’ve improved. A lot.”

You blinked, unsure whether the flutter in your chest was from the compliment or the way he said it. Quiet. Like it meant something more.

“Thanks,” you said softly.

Darlene walked by, not-so-subtly smirking as she grabbed her water bottle. “If you two are done making eyes at each other, Lucian promised me a sparring round.”

Lucian sighed. “You're exhausting.”

“I know,” she said brightly.

You sat out the next round, stretching in a corner, watching them dance. Darlene was light on her feet but fierce. She gave Lucian no quarter, and he—perhaps to test her or perhaps to spar honestly—didn’t go easy. But beneath the clashing, there was playfulness. Familiarity.

And you were realizing something strange. Lucian’s gaze lingered more often today. Not on Darlene. On you.

Later, the three of you collapsed into a circle of breath and laughter, sweat cooling on your skin, hair damp against your forehead. Lucian leaned back on his palms, looking up at the warehouse rafters.

“I don’t hate mornings like this,” he muttered.

“You usually do,” Darlene teased.

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “But sometimes it’s... tolerable.”

You watched the light hit his cheekbones. Something in your chest squeezed.

“Tolerable, huh?” you echoed.

He glanced at you, smirking. “Don’t get cocky.”

The three of you sat in that silence for a while—thick with contentment, with the hum of connection that didn’t need words. Outside, Gotham carried on with its usual chaos. But in here, for now, there was only quiet warmth.

Lucian stood and stretched. “Same time tomorrow?”

You nodded. Darlene gave a thumbs up.

“Cool,” he said, voice lower now. “See you then.”

You watched him walk out, hoodie pulled over his hair, hands deep in his pockets. He looked back once. Just once. And the look was for you.

Darlene whistled. “He’s softening up.”

“He’s always been soft deep down,” you murmured.

She turned to you, eyes gleaming. “No. I mean with you.”

You smiled, not answering. But your heart had already betrayed you—racing like it knew something you didn’t.

It was late afternoon when golden light poured across the polished floors of the private studio at Wayne Manor. The grand mirrors shimmered with sunbeams, each ray stretching long across the floor like ribbons cast from heaven. You moved in silence, the silk of your practice attire gliding against your skin as you pivoted, leapt, and reached in perfect rhythm to a symphony only you could hear. Your breath came in gentle huffs, your body already tuned finely from weeks of grueling repetition, and yet you pushed harder. You had to. The performance was in two days, and Madame Collette’s sharp eyes would catch even the tiniest misstep.

A fouetté. Another. Another. You turned, landed on pointe, arms slicing the air, back arching with pristine grace. Sweat beaded on your forehead but you didn’t wipe it. You didn’t stop. Your reflection danced alongside you, not quite matching the light in your chest that flickered with excitement and nerves alike.

Outside the tall French doors, birds chirped and the trees swayed gently. Alfred had opened the windows earlier to let the spring air drift in. The scent of tulips and warm bark floated with it, grounding you in a rare sense of calm. Until—

The studio door creaked.

You stopped mid-pirouette, your breathing slowing as your eyes flicked toward the entryway.

“Darlene,” you breathed, a smile spreading across your lips.

She grinned as she stepped in, her wild curls held back with a green scarf, her jacket slung over her shoulder like she owned the manor. “Hey, étoile,” she teased, plopping her bag by the door. “You practicing for Paris or are you just trying to make me feel ungraceful?”

You chuckled, padding barefoot over the hardwood. “Trying to keep Madame Collette from breathing fire.”

Darlene laughed and gave you a tight hug, rocking you side to side. “You’ll kill it. I’ve seen you crush a solo on three hours of sleep and a sprained ankle.”

“I wasn’t crushed. I cried on stage,” you reminded her.

“Yeah, but you cried beautifully,” she retorted, releasing you with a wink.

You smiled, feeling the warmth of her presence ease the tight knot in your stomach. Together, you wandered down the marble staircase, the echo of your conversation trailing behind you.

By the time you reached the drawing room, Alfred had already set up a silver tray of warm raspberry scones, mini sandwiches, and imported sparkling water. He stood by the fireplace, offering his usual poised smile.

“Miss Darlene,” he greeted with a respectful nod, “a pleasure as always.”

Darlene beamed. “You always remember my favorite.”

“I do try to anticipate needs before they arise,” Alfred replied, his eyes twinkling.

You flopped onto the velvet settee, your muscles grateful for the rest. Darlene joined beside you, already reaching for a scone.

Footsteps padded from the hallway, and soon enough, a few of your siblings trickled in.

Damian stood by the arched doorway, arms crossed, eyebrows drawn. “Who’s she?” he asked, tone neutral but eyes curious.

Darlene leaned forward, unfazed. “Darlene. Friend, future forensic psychologist, and the person who’s going to eat your last scone if you don’t hurry.”

Tim walked in behind him, raising a brow. “That was oddly specific.”

“She’s always like this,” you said with a smile, leaning back and sipping your water. “Darlene, this is Tim, Damian, and that’s Jason—”

“Don’t forget me,” Dick called from behind them, dramatically swinging into the room and plopping onto the couch’s armrest.

“You guys make it sound like I’m some visitor from another world,” Darlene said, clearly enjoying the banter.

“Well,” Damian muttered under his breath, “she looks familiar…”

Darlene tilted her head. “I get that a lot.”

You noticed the flicker in Damian’s gaze, the furrow in his brow. You quickly redirected as he began to leave, the others soon following behind. “So, school’s almost over,” you said to Darlene. “You're gonna be ready for all the charity galas coming up?”

“Oh god,” she groaned. My mom already has three dresses on standby. One’s too tight, one’s too poofy, and one makes me look like a stepmother.”

Alfred, passing by with more napkins, raised a knowing brow. “Might I suggest the poofy one? It’s harder to trip in.”

You both laughed as Alfred gracefully departed.

“So,” Darlene began, drawing out the word with a smirk. “Lucian’s been… warmer lately.”

You froze slightly mid-bite of your sandwich. “Has he?”

“Don’t ‘has he’ me,” she said, nudging your shoulder. “He’s been making jokes, lightening up, giving you special training hours. I mean, if he offers you personalized sparring one more time, I might start to think he’s writing your name in a notebook with little hearts.”

You laughed nervously, tucking your leg beneath you. “Lucian’s just… intense. Maybe he’s just lightening up around both of us.”

Darlene studied your expression like a hawk.

“Y/n,” she said slowly, “you do realize he stares at you like you’re some glowing artifact, right?”

“He doesn’t,” you said quickly, brushing imaginary lint from your skirt.

“He does. And don’t think I haven’t noticed that every time he says your name, you blush like mad.”

“I do not!”

“You’re blushing right now.”

You covered your face with a groan. “Okay, maybe… maybe I get a little fluttery around him. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Mhm,” she hummed, sipping her water. “It’s just your heart skipping every time he’s in the room. Totally platonic.”

You looked away toward the French doors. Outside, the sun was beginning to set, casting the garden in molten gold. The sky painted itself in hues of lavender and pink, clouds stretching like cotton across the horizon. The light made you look far away for a moment, caught in something unspoken.

“Sometimes,” you murmured, “I don’t know how to handle it. When he looks at me like that… it’s like… like he sees something I haven’t even discovered yet. And it scares me.”

Darlene softened. “That’s kind of beautiful. Scary, yeah, but beautiful.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready for anything more,” you whispered. “Not after everything. Not when I still dream about… about that night. About Mom. About Claude.”

The room fell quiet for a moment, the ticking of the antique clock filling the silence.

Darlene placed her hand over yours. “Then take your time. Let things grow naturally. You don’t have to rush.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of her words settle warmly in your chest. Outside, the wind picked up gently, rustling the ivy against the manor walls.

“Also,” she added, grin returning, “if you don’t do something about him, I might. Have you seen that jawline?”

You both burst out laughing, the tension easing.

Just then, your phone buzzed. A message from Lucian.

[Lucian]: Don’t over-practice tonight. You’ve got a big day coming. Rest. Eat. Sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Your heart skipped.

Darlene leaned over. “Let me guess. Him?”

You nodded.

“I knew it,” she sang, spinning in her seat with glee.

You laughed again, light-headed with something you couldn’t quite name. Outside, the last light of day dimmed, and the stars began to rise like shy dancers behind a velvet curtain.

The sky was overcast the morning before your performance, the clouds hanging low and gray, casting a quiet light over Gotham’s early morning skyline. There was no rain, not yet, but the wind carried with it a chill that whispered of something brewing.

Inside the Wayne Manor’s private gym, you stood at the center of the floor, stretching with silent intensity. The room smelled faintly of lemon disinfectant and sweat, a scent you’d come to associate with discipline. You rolled your neck slowly, letting the vertebrae click gently into place. Today wasn’t about pushing hard. Today was about preserving what you’d worked so tirelessly to build.

Your fingers curled and uncurled at your sides. You glanced over at your bag resting by the mirrored wall, your pointe shoes poking out slightly. Tomorrow would be everything—your final performance of the year, one of the biggest charity galas in Gotham, and, hopefully, the night your father would finally see you. Truly see you.

You stepped out into the hallway quietly, padding barefoot toward your father's study. Your heart pounded with every step, the words you planned echoing in your head like a mantra. It was still early; maybe he hadn’t left for the office yet. You turned the corner just as Bruce emerged from the study, dressed in his standard crisp black button-down, already halfway through reviewing something on his tablet.

“Dad,” you called out, more breath than voice. He stopped, eyes flickering up.

“Y/N,” he acknowledged, voice flat with fatigue. “What is it? I have a meeting downtown in ten.”

You swallowed the knot in your throat. “I… I just wanted to ask—my performance. Tomorrow. It’s at seven, at the Gotham Arts Theatre. I was wondering if you’d come.”

There was a pause, slight but devastating.

“You know I don’t usually go to public events unless they’re mission-critical,” Bruce said, setting down the tablet for a moment. “But you want me there?”

Your eyes fluttered up to meet his. “Yes,” you whispered. “I know you’re busy. I know… I’ve asked before. But just this once, I need you to come. It’s important to me.”

Bruce studied you for a long beat. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Alright. I’ll be there. I promise.”

The breath you’d been holding escaped all at once, a warmth blooming in your chest. “You’ll really come?”

“I said I would.” His tone softened a degree. “You’ve worked hard for this. I’ll be there.”

You nodded slowly, something cautious yet hopeful flickering across your face. “Thank you.”

You turned, walking away before you could let the moment swallow you whole. You didn’t want to cry. Not now. Not when it finally felt like things might be changing.

That afternoon, you made your way to the training facility where Lucian and Darlene waited. The air smelled of steel and wood polish, of old mats and fresh bruises. Your body was ready, but your mind lingered elsewhere, caught somewhere between tomorrow’s stage lights and this morning’s conversation.

Darlene was already mid-stretch when you arrived. Lucian was pacing near the weight rack, but his expression was lighter than usual—less storm cloud, more passing shade.

“Hey, sunshine,” Darlene teased, standing up and brushing dust off her knees. “Look who finally showed up.”

“Five minutes early is still early,” you replied with a small smile.

Lucian turned toward you. “Actually… I was going to cancel today’s session,” he said, voice unusually casual. “You’ve got a big day tomorrow, right?”

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

Darlene raised an eyebrow at him. “You're… cutting her a break?”

He shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Figured we’d do something else. Hang out, maybe. Keep it light.”

You tilted your head. “You don’t go light. Ever.”

“I do now,” he said with a sly grin, his dark hair falling slightly into his eyes. 

Your heart stuttered. It wasn’t dramatic, but you felt it. The flutter, that warm weight in your chest threatening to tug your smile wider.

Darlene raised both eyebrows and muttered under her breath, “Oh, it’s getting serious…”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile breaking over your face. “So, what? Are we just… hanging out here?”

Lucian shrugged again. “Figured we’d walk the park, grab food. Get your mind off the performance.”

Something caught in your throat at the offer. It was simple, small—but the effort behind it was anything but. “Okay. That sounds… really nice.”

You, Lucian, and Darlene strolled through Gotham Park within the hour. Trees overhead danced in the wind, their branches brushing against the sky like the strokes of a restless artist. You sipped hot cocoa from a paper cup, grateful for the simple heat.

Darlene walked a few steps ahead, narrating some outlandish story about an ex-boyfriend who tried to woo her with glow-in-the-dark roses. Lucian chuckled beside you, but his gaze kept drifting toward you when he thought you weren’t looking.

Eventually, Darlene wandered off to chase pigeons near the fountain. Lucian leaned close.

“You nervous?” he asked.

You nodded. “Terrified.”

He was quiet for a moment, then: “You’ll be brilliant. I’ve seen what you’re capable of.”

You looked up at him, searching his expression. “You’ll be there, right? At the performance?”

Lucian’s gaze flicked toward yours with an earnestness you weren’t expecting. “Of course. Wouldn’t miss it.”

You smiled, fingers tightening around your paper cup.

Darlene reappeared a second later, laughing breathlessly. “Alright, lovebirds. Let’s not get too caught up in our romcom here.”

You blushed immediately, glancing away. “It’s not—”

“Yeah, yeah,” she waved you off with a wink. “Just make sure you don’t trip onstage tomorrow from being too distracted.”

You threw a napkin at her. She ducked and stuck her tongue out, and all three of you collapsed into laughter that echoed off the trees.

That night, back in your room at the Manor, you sat cross-legged in bed, staring at your reflection in the vanity mirror. The glow of your string lights made your hair look gold, soft curls falling around your cheeks like waves.

You reached for the small gold locket resting in your jewelry tray and opened it slowly. Inside, a photo of your mother smiled back at you. You pressed your thumb against it gently.

“I hope you’re proud,” you whispered.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” you called.

Alfred poked his head in, carrying a small tray with tea. “Chamomile. For nerves.”

You smiled. “Thank you, Alfred.”

He set it down beside your bed, then hesitated. “I hear you’ve got quite the cheering section tomorrow.”

You chuckled softly. “Yeah. Darlene and Lucian are coming.”

“Anyone else?”

You hesitated. “Dad said he would. He promised.”

Alfred smiled faintly, the kind of smile that held decades of history behind it. “Then I imagine he’ll be there.”

You sipped the tea slowly, the warmth grounding you. Alfred reached over and squeezed your shoulder gently before leaving.

Alone again, you lay back against your pillows, heart fluttering in your chest. It wasn’t just the performance. It wasn’t just the crowd or the lights or the perfection you’d have to achieve.

It was the people who would be watching. Lucian. Darlene. And maybe… finally… Bruce.

As your eyes began to close, a peaceful exhaustion overtaking you, you didn’t notice the faint shimmer beginning to crawl beneath your skin. Not just yet.

That would come later.

The auditorium buzzed with low murmurs and shuffling programs as the lights dimmed, casting a soft hush over the audience. Backstage, a very different kind of silence filled the air—tense, trembling, and too quiet to be soothing. You stood in front of the full-length mirror, breath tight in your chest, ballet slippers planted but shaky. The white tulle of your costume glimmered under the soft bulbs, your arms folded around yourself.

Two days ago, this moment felt exciting. Now, it felt like walking a tightrope between euphoria and devastation.

Your name echoed faintly in the air, muffled through the walls. “Y/N Wayne, lead ballerina.” A voice called from the hall, rehearsing the lineup.

Your fingers trembled slightly as they adjusted the jeweled pin in your bun. You glanced at your reflection—wide eyes, flushed cheeks, the faint shimmer of nerves making your skin dewy. You couldn’t hear the audience clearly, but you didn’t need to. You were listening for one voice, or maybe just the silence of its absence.

“Come on,” you whispered to yourself, “you knew he wouldn’t come.”

Still, it didn’t stop the aching.

A gentle knock tapped against the door. “Y/N? Ten minutes,” a stagehand said softly.

You nodded, swallowing the lump forming in your throat. “Thank you.”

The moment she left, you exhaled. Lucian and Darlene. They would be here. That was enough, wasn’t it?

You stepped away from the mirror and opened the dressing room door, walking down the dim hallway where dancers passed with urgent flutters. Each one glided with purpose. You tried to match their grace, but your mind swirled.

“Y/N!”

You turned, the voice unmistakable. Darlene was rushing over, dressed in a pale yellow sundress that made her look like sunshine in motion. Her curls bounced as she threw her arms around you.

“You look breathtaking! Are you ready?” she asked, her voice bubbling with pride.

You blinked rapidly, trying to hide the emotion rising in your chest. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” you whispered with a smile.

Darlene stepped back, tilting her head. “Don’t tell me you’re looking for someone…”

Your lips parted, but you didn’t say his name.

“Y/N,” she said gently. “Lucian and I are here. We’ve got front row seats. He’s even wearing the dark shirt you like.”

You smiled, the real kind, soft and reluctant. “Thank you. For being here.”

“Of course,” Darlene beamed. “Now go out there and steal the show, prima.”

You nodded, inhaling deeply and walking to your mark. The curtains would rise in seconds. The theater was nearly full. You peeked through the side of the velvet stage curtain.

There they were. Darlene. Lucian.

Your stomach gave a small flip when Lucian leaned forward, elbows on knees, already watching the stage even though the performance hadn’t begun. His gaze was sharp but calm, his presence like an anchor in the sea of nerves around you.

Your heart fluttered.

Then you scanned the rows again. One seat near the center remained empty.

Your smile dimmed.

A soft tap to your shoulder startled you—one of the stagehands signaling it was time.

The music cued.

You stepped into the light.

As the curtain rose, you melted into movement. The stage was yours, the spotlight cradled your limbs like warmth on skin, and the opening notes of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake spun around you like wind. You moved as you’d practiced for months—light, elegant, sorrowful, every emotion hidden deep in your bones called out by the music.

You could feel the audience watching.

Each twirl, each plié, each reach of your fingers held a piece of your story. Your mother. The garden. The rain. Claude. Bruce. The emptiness of silence after hope.

But then there was Lucian. And Darlene. And the soft brush of possibility.

As the first act closed, the applause rose like a crashing tide. You held your breath, heart pounding, and bowed.

And that’s when you saw him.

Bruce Wayne.

He was seated in the once-empty seat, dressed in a suit, still as ever, expression unreadable. But he was there. And that alone was enough to pull a tear from the corner of your eye.

For the first time in years, he had shown up for you.

You turned, heart hammering against your ribs, and vanished into the wings, breath stolen.

Backstage, dancers gave you high-fives, soft congratulations, but it all passed like fog. You leaned against the wall, trying to breathe.

“Y/N.”

You turned.

There he was, dressed in black, a bit of sweat on his brow—your father.

“You made it,” you said, voice barely audible.

He stepped closer, softer than usual. “You asked,” he said. “So I dropped everything and came, just as I promised.”

You stared at him for a moment, then crossed the distance and hugged him. His arms wrapped around you, and for a second, you felt like a little girl again, like the one who used to wait on the front steps for someone to come home.

In his arms, you breathed in. It smelled like cologne and faint smoke. It was real.

But then—

Your eyes flicked open mid-hug.

Across the room stood Lucian and Darlene. Darlene, smiling softly but fading. Lucian’s expression unreadable, his eyes caught on the moment like it pierced him.

You took a step back from your father, eyes widening.

“Excuse me,” you said quickly, moving past Bruce, your slippers scuffing lightly against the floor. “Lucian—”

But he was already gone. He had disappeared into the crowd backstage, vanishing like fog swallowed by night.

The absence he left behind carved something hollow in your chest.

Darlene touched your arm as she walked past. “Go after him,” she whispered.

You wanted to.

But you stood still, rooted by the storm of emotions. The joy of Bruce showing up tangled with the pang of Lucian leaving. You weren’t sure what to feel—only that it was all crashing down on you.

Back in your dressing room, the mirror no longer reflected confidence—it reflected confusion.

The knock that came minutes later wasn’t from Lucian.

It was Bruce.

“I have to get back to work,” he said, holding your gaze. “But I meant what I said.”

You nodded. “Thank you. For coming.”

He gave you one last look, then left.

And once again, you were alone.

Later that night, you sat in the garden outside the manor. The moon hung low in the sky, soft and milky. Your slippers dangled from your hand as you stared at the stars, thinking of everything and nothing.

You had danced the performance of your life.

You had your father’s attention, finally.

So why did it still feel like something was missing?

You leaned your head back, feeling the wind trace across your skin, and thought of Lucian. The way he looked at you in the audience. The way he left.

And how your heart had stopped when you realized he was gone.

You didn’t understand it yet. But something had shifted tonight.

Not just in the way you danced.

But in the way your world had cracked open—and in the space that followed, something new began to bloom.

Something stronger.

It had been three days since your performance—the flowers had wilted, the makeup removed, and the standing ovations faded into a distant echo. But you couldn’t stop replaying that one moment backstage. The one where Lucian’s eyes met yours across the room and then... he was gone.

You hadn’t seen him since.

Darlene noticed first. “He’s avoiding you,” she’d said with a subtle shrug, casually flipping through her phone while lounging upside down on your bed. “Like plague-level avoidance. That boy disappeared with the wind.”

You’d tried to brush it off. You told yourself maybe he was just busy. That he’d reach out soon. But as each hour passed and his silence grew louder, your stomach churned with a creeping guilt you couldn’t name.

Until today.

Today, you decided enough was enough.

You stormed into your closet, slipping into jeans, boots, and the hoodie he once told you made you look “unapproachable in a cool way.” Hair let down, you met Darlene in the kitchen, where she was sipping cold-brew like it was gossip fuel.

“Where is he?”

Darlene blinked. “Good morning to you, too.”

“Darlene.”

She sighed, placing the coffee down. “He’s at his apartment. And before you ask—yes, I know for sure.”

You gave her a look.

She handed over a folded sticky note. “Just... don’t kill each other.”

Lucian’s apartment was in Burnside—industrial, minimalist, and definitely uninviting from the outside. It was tucked between a boxing gym and a motorcycle repair shop, like a well-kept secret.

You stood in front of the grey door, staring at it like it owed you something.

Then you knocked.

Silence.

You knocked again. This time harder.

Footsteps.

A click.

The door opened.

Lucian stood there in a dark tank top and joggers, hair mussed, expression blank. But his eyes—his eyes looked like they’d been arguing with his thoughts for days.

He blinked. “Y/N?”

“I need to talk.”

He looked at you like he didn’t expect to ever see you again.

“You gonna let me in, or...?”

Wordlessly, he stepped aside.

You walked in. The space was just like him—clean lines, dark colors, a punching bag in the corner, books scattered in precise messes. You stopped in the middle of the room and turned to face him.

“I’m sorry,” you said, voice breaking the silence like glass.

He crossed his arms. “For what, exactly?”

You swallowed. “For not telling you. About... everything.”

Lucian didn’t move. “Tell me about what? Oh, that you’re the daughter of the man who left me to die?”

His voice was sharper than you expected. He didn’t yell, but it hurt more because of how calm it was. Controlled. Measured.

“Lucian, it wasn’t like that—”

He cut you off. “It was exactly like that. Your father knew my family needed help. He chose not to. And now... you’re part of that legacy. And you didn’t think to mention it?”

Your hands curled into fists. “Do you know how hard it was not to tell you? Do you have any idea what it felt like? Every time I wanted to say it, I stopped myself because I was afraid you’d look at me like you are right now.”

He stepped closer. “And yet you let me train you. Trust you. You let me fall into your orbit while keeping the biggest thing about you hidden.”

“I didn’t let you do anything!” you snapped. “Don’t twist this into something it’s not!”

He blinked at your tone—this time, his mask cracked just a bit.

You pointed at your chest. “I’ve spent every single day trying to prove that I’m not just ‘Bruce Wayne’s daughter.’ I’ve bled. I’ve trained. I’ve earned every scrap of respect in those sessions. But when you found out the truth, you threw all of that away!”

His jaw tightened. “I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did!” you cut in, voice trembling. “You judged me before I even had the chance to explain.”

Lucian exhaled, stepping back, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“And you know what?” you said, your voice dropping. “I didn’t tell you because I was afraid of this. You walking away. You treating me like I’m poison. Like I’m just a part of the man who hurt you.”

Silence.

Lucian looked at the floor. “I don’t know how to separate you from him.”

You blinked rapidly. “Then maybe you need to grow up.”

He looked up.

You stared him dead in the eyes. “I’ve been holding it in, but I’m tired, Lucian. Tired of pretending like I’m okay with your silence. Your moods. Your walls. I’ve done everything I could to show you that I care. That I want this—whatever this is—to mean something. And you? You run. You shut down. You act like I’m the villain for hiding something that scared me to share.”

The room pulsed with silence.

“I’m not him,” you said, voice cracking. “I never will be.”

Lucian stared at you. Something unreadable flickered in his eyes.

You gasped, suddenly aware of how hard your heart was pounding. You’d never spoken to him like this before. You covered your mouth, horrified at what just came out.

“I... I didn’t mean it like that,” you whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Lucian’s lips parted, but he didn’t speak. Instead, he took a slow step toward you.

You turned slightly, ready to retreat. But he reached out and gently touched your wrist.

“Y/N,” he said, barely above a whisper, “don’t apologize.”

You looked up, and your eyes met his—full of something soft, something wounded.

“I needed to hear that,” he said. “You’re right. I’ve been holding onto the past like it defines me. I looked at you, and all I could see was what your father didn’t do. That wasn’t fair.”

You held your breath.

“I was scared,” he admitted. “Because when I’m around you, I feel like the walls I spent years building don’t matter anymore. You make me feel... normal.”

Your heart leapt.

“I was mad. But more than that, I was afraid that knowing the truth would change how I saw you. And it didn’t. Not really. I just didn’t want it to mean something more than I could handle.”

You took a step closer.

“You never saw me as a Wayne,” he said. “You saw me as Lucian. Just Lucian. And I didn’t give you the same courtesy.”

You blinked, warmth filling your chest.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You looked at him, studying his expression. “So... you forgive me?”

He laughed under his breath. “I should be the one begging for your forgiveness.”

You stared at him for a moment. “Okay. Then you’re forgiven.”

He smiled—genuinely, the kind that made the air between you soften.

“But,” you added, “you ever ghost me again like that, and I’m lighting your apartment on fire.”

He chuckled. “Fair.”

You exhaled deeply, feeling like a weight had been lifted. Then you stepped back, looking around. “This place is actually kind of cozy.”

“I know. You expected a training dungeon, didn’t you?”

You raised a brow. “I expected chains and a secret punching bag that screams when hit.”

“Don’t give me ideas.”

The tension finally broke between you both. And in its place, something new formed—stronger, clearer, and unspoken.

You stayed for another hour.

You didn’t kiss. You didn’t even touch again.

But when you left, you knew Lucian would never see you the same way again.

And for once, you didn’t need the Wayne name or a mask to prove your worth.

The sky wept long before you did.

Rain lashed against the glass panes of the conservatory, wind howling like a wounded animal through the cracked seams of Gotham’s towering skyline. You stood inside the glass garden high atop the abandoned penthouse of the old Gotham Botanical Archives—your safe space, your secret sanctuary—and stared up at the turbulent sky, your palms outstretched.

The storm was mimicking you now.

You weren’t surprised. Not anymore.

You could feel it deep in your bones—the same way you’d felt the water calling you, the flowers blooming beneath your feet, the way your reflection rippled before your fingertips ever touched the surface. This new power wasn’t quiet like the others.

It roared.

Thunder cracked, splitting the sky in half, and with it came a jolt of energy behind your ribs, a pulse so violent it knocked you back a step. You gasped, grabbing the rusted railing beside the orchid wall, your body trembling. A faint blue light shimmered beneath your skin, lightning spider-webbing up your arms and down to your fingertips.

Your breath fogged in the air.

And then you screamed.

The storm answered with a symphony of thunderclaps.

You dropped to your knees.

Twelve hours earlier, you were in training.

Lucian had started easing back into sessions with you after your confrontation. Things between you two had become tentative again—but honest, grounded. There were apologies, long silences, a few awkward grins. No one said the word “relationship,” but something softer had begun blooming again, this time without the lies between you.

“You’ve been... jumpier,” he noted that morning as you dodged a roundhouse kick and threw him across the mat.

You wiped sweat from your forehead. “My body’s changing again. I can feel it.”

He frowned. “Like before?”

You hesitated. “No. This is different.”

“How?”

You looked up at him, chest rising and falling. “I think I’m becoming something I don’t understand.”

Lucian didn’t flinch. “Then we figure it out.”

But even as he said it, you knew something was stirring far beyond your control.

That afternoon, Alfred found you pacing in the manor greenhouse, gripping a rose stem too tightly, thorns digging into your palm.

“Miss Y/N,” he said gently. “The flowers are not to blame.”

You blinked down at the blood trailing from your hand.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered. “I just…” I trailed off, feeling the blood seep from my skin.

Alfred stepped closer, dabbing at your hand with a cloth. “I worry for you, Y/n. You’re gone everyday and every night, bruises painted on your skin. Then, at times like this, you start to feel ill then go missing for 12 days, you come back like a different person, as if you didn’t have your whole family searching for you. I hate to get in your business but, is everything okay?”

You looked at him, eyes burning but a smile still placed on your face, “I promise, Alfred. I’m..” I faltered a bit, lowering my head to figure out what to say, “I’ll be fine.” My eyes met him again, reassuring him.

He met your gaze. “I have a hard time trusting you nowadays, but I mustn't go against your word.”

You went to the rooftop conservatory alone that evening, hoping the silence would still the war raging in your chest.

It didn’t.

Instead, the sky mirrored your unrest. Storm clouds rolled in like sentries, thick and bruised, pregnant with fury. You sat in the center of the garden floor, surrounded by broken planters and rain-drenched vines, your knees tucked to your chest, waiting for the sensation to pass.

But it didn’t pass.

It built.

And then it broke.

The pain started behind your sternum—an aching pressure, like your ribs couldn’t contain the voltage. Your fingers began to spark. At first tiny, gentle flickers. Then arcs. Then full streaks of electricity danced up your arms, crackling along your skin in vibrant veins of cobalt.

Your back arched. You let out a strangled cry.

Lightning slammed into the rooftop outside, rattling the glass so hard it splintered.

“No, no, no—”

You tried to hold it back, but the energy was wild, furious. It wasn’t responding to your fear—it was feeding on it.

You gasped for air, eyes glowing faint blue in your reflection on the wet glass.

The storm within you had breached its cage.

And it wanted out.

A sudden explosion of light knocked you backward into a planter. The air stung with ozone. Your hoodie smoked at the sleeves. Your heartbeat roared like thunder in your ears.

You stumbled up, clawing at your chest as if you could rip the energy out.

“I’m not ready!” you screamed to no one.

But the storm didn’t care.

Your palms snapped outward and a shockwave of lightning erupted from you, shooting into the ceiling and up into the clouds.

The skyline above you lit up.

And then you heard it—sirens. Screams. A transformer down the block had exploded. The city’s power grid flickered.

You fell to your knees again, sobbing, fingers twitching with residual sparks.

You were losing control.

Down below, Lucian’s bike screeched to a stop outside the building.

He didn’t need to be told where you were. He felt it—the way your energy tugged at him now like a magnetized tether. He took the fire escape three steps at a time, rain pelting his shoulders, until he burst through the broken conservatory doors.

“Y/N!”

You were on the floor, curled around yourself, shaking uncontrollably.

“Don’t come near me!” you cried.

But he didn’t listen.

He ran to you, kneeling in the rain-soaked garden tiles.

“I can’t stop it,” you choked out, voice panicked. “Lucian, I can’t—if I touch you—”

He grabbed your hand anyway.

The moment his fingers laced with yours, the lightning surged.

But he didn’t let go.

“Look at me,” he said firmly.

You were sobbing. “I’ll kill you—”

“You won’t. Look at me.”

You raised your eyes to his.

“You’re not the storm. You’re the one who holds it. You control it.”

“I can’t,” you whispered.

“Yes, you can,” he insisted. “You already are.”

Your hands trembled violently in his.

“I’m scared.”

“I know. But you don’t have to be alone.”

Another bolt cracked the sky, but this time it didn’t land. It hovered. Pulsed. Waited.

Because you were no longer fighting it.

You were listening.

He helped you sit upright, his hands still gripping yours.

“Let it pass through,” Lucian said quietly. “Don’t dam it up. Just... channel it.”

You closed your eyes.

And for a moment, you let go of the fear.

The storm inside you roared—but you didn’t drown.

You breathed it in.

And then you exhaled.

When you opened your eyes, the lightning receded. The blue glow faded from your veins, the tension in your chest released like a dam breaking into gentle streams.

The storm didn’t vanish.

But it bowed to you.

Lucian exhaled, forehead resting against yours.

You both sat there, surrounded by shattered glass and dripping vines, the remnants of chaos still sizzling in the air.

You looked at him. “You shouldn’t have touched me.”

He smiled faintly. “You were sparking like a human battery. I figured it was a risk worth taking.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“You love me anyway.”

You hesitated.

Then nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

He blinked.

You both went quiet.

The wind softened.

You leaned against him.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” you whispered. “First the flowers, then the water, and now... thunder?”

Lucian tilted his head, brushing damp hair from your forehead. “You’re evolving.”

You closed your eyes.

“But what am I evolving into?”

His voice was steady. “Something extraordinary.”

Hours passed before you moved again.

Lucian helped you clean the glass, reset the broken planters, and cover the cracked ceiling with a tarp. The conservatory was a wreck, but it felt more sacred now—baptized by lightning, marked by survival.

As the storm outside faded into a grey morning hush, you stood at the edge of the rooftop with him, watching the first sliver of sun peek over Gotham’s silhouette.

“I’m changing again,” you murmured. “I can feel it. Every time, it’s deeper. More elemental.”

He nodded. “And I’ll be right here for every phase.”

You looked at him, heart full.

“You promise?”

He didn’t blink. “I do.”

You believed him.

Because even in the eye of your chaos, he’d walked into the storm to find you.

And now, as the sun kissed the clouds and the air shimmered with dew and smoke, you felt something you hadn’t in weeks.

Calm.

The headlines were still fresh. Y/N Wayne had become more than a mystery—she was now an obsession. Her face, newly matured by the storm-like transformation, was splashed across every newspaper and tabloid cover in Gotham and beyond.

“Breathtakingly Beautiful—The Most Captivating Wayne Yet?” “Wayne Heiress Causes Stir on Gotham Streets!” “From Quiet to Queen: Y/N Wayne’s Glow-Up Goes Viral.”

Photos snapped by the paparazzi showed her walking calmly through downtown Gotham. Nothing about her outfit was flashy—an off-the-shoulder sweater, wide-legged jeans, boots, and a satchel across her shoulder—but it was the way she carried herself. Each step was poised. Each breath seemed to harmonize with the air. The sun caught in the shimmer of her skin like moonlight on water, and her curls fell in soft, ocean-like waves down her back, touched with a subtle electric hue when the light hit just right.

People turned. Not just out of admiration, but something closer to reverence.

Cars slowed as she passed. Pedestrians blinked in awe. A child in a stroller pointed and asked, “Is she a fairy?”

She didn’t notice them. Or, more truthfully, she didn’t let herself react to them. Because on the inside, she still felt like that quiet girl—delicate, bruised, and unsure. The same girl who once curled up in a subway tunnel after crying herself hoarse over the world’s indifference. Now, everyone saw the glow, the ethereal softness. But none of them saw the ache still hiding beneath her glowing exterior.

Back at Wayne Enterprises, the sky dimmed with early evening light, a golden-orange pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Bruce’s office. The city glimmered below.

Inside, the tension between Vivienne and Bruce was growing thicker, as if even the beams of light didn’t dare slip between them.

Stacks of paperwork sat between them—budget reports, gala proposals, property agreements—but none of it was being touched now. Bruce had rolled up his sleeves, his forearms flexing slightly as he leaned over to read a quarterly audit. Vivienne sat on the couch, glasses perched on her nose, scanning over a merger proposal. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—but it was loaded.

It was the way Vivienne’s gaze would drift toward Bruce, then quickly flick back to the page. The way Bruce rubbed the back of his neck when she got too close. The way they didn’t speak much, but when they did, it was low, deliberate, thoughtful.

“You’re staying late,” Vivienne finally said, softly. “That’s a first in a while.”

Bruce looked up, his brow creasing in something unreadable. “So are you.”

A silence. Then a laugh from Vivienne—small, a little nervous. “Touché.”

Their eyes lingered on each other. The air shifted.

Then… a knock.

Before either of them could answer, the door opened with theatrical ease, as if pushed by wind—and in walked Selina Kyle.

Wearing a skin-tight black catsuit beneath an open trench coat, her heels echoed against the tile. Her eyes, cat-like and gleaming, scanned the room. She smiled like she owned the world. Or maybe like she could steal it and no one would notice until she was halfway across the continent.

“Well, well,” she purred. “Didn’t know this was a party.”

Vivienne immediately straightened. The name didn’t need to be said aloud; she recognized her from photos, headlines, and one charity event years ago. She sat up straighter, her expression unreadable.

Bruce’s jaw tensed. “Selina.”

“Don’t sound so thrilled.” Selina moved like a dancer, her coat swaying behind her as she stepped toward them. “I was in town and thought… maybe it’s time I said hi.”

She turned to Vivienne, holding out a hand as if the two of them were old friends. “And you must be the new assistant. Or are we calling them partners now?”

Vivienne stood, taking her hand with polite calm. “Vivienne. CFO.”

“Oh, chief,” Selina mused, dragging out the word. “Very impressive.”

Bruce cleared his throat, attempting to cut through the rising tension. “Selina, what are you doing here?”

Selina leaned in, her lips brushing his cheek in a kiss that made Vivienne flinch. “Just missed you, darling.” She said it like a joke. Like a dare.

Bruce didn’t move away.

Vivienne watched in silence. Her jaw tightened, but she said nothing. She turned back to the paperwork, though her vision blurred slightly.

Selina perched on the edge of Bruce’s desk, crossing her legs. “I saw your daughter in the papers, by the way. She’s… wow. You breed well.”

Bruce frowned. “Don’t talk about her like she’s a horse.”

“Relax.” Selina laughed. “I meant it as a compliment. She’s stunning. Looks a bit like you around the eyes—though the rest of her’s all mystery.”

Vivienne turned a page, even though she hadn’t finished the last one. Her hand trembled slightly as she scribbled a note in the margin.

Selina glanced toward her, eyes sharp. “Something wrong, Vivienne?”

“No,” Vivienne said coolly, standing and collecting her things. “I just remembered—I have something urgent to take care of.”

Bruce turned to her. “Viv—”

But she was already walking past him, her ponytail swinging.

She didn’t look back.

Not when Selina smirked. Not when Bruce stepped after her and stopped himself. Not when her heels clicked down the hallway in clipped, precise beats of quiet rage.

Bruce stood there, torn between the woman who just left… and the one still watching him.

Selina tilted her head. “Did I interrupt something?”

“No,” Bruce said, but even he didn’t believe it.

Meanwhile, at Wayne Manor, things felt colder than usual.

Y/N sat on the window seat of her room, watching the sky bruise into night. Her curls were still damp from the bath, her skin shimmering with the afterglow of her transformation. Her phone buzzed nonstop with notifications—news alerts, texts, social media tags. Darlene had even sent a voice note laughing: “Girl, you are literally breaking the internet.”

But Y/N didn’t feel like laughing.

She scrolled past headlines. People discussing her beauty like she was a painting. Critics analyzing her “aura.” Blogs comparing her to old Hollywood icons or mythical creatures. There was admiration, but also obsession—and beneath it all, a reminder that she was still being seen, not understood.

She hadn’t heard from Bruce all day.

She knew he’d been working late again. Probably with Vivienne. A small smile played at her lips thinking of them—how they’d started to talk more, joke even. Vivienne was kind. Grounded. She was good for him. Y/N had hoped that maybe, just maybe, her father was learning to make room in his life for someone who wasn’t haunted by shadows.

Then she saw it.

A tweet. From Gotham Press.

@GothamPressOnline: “EXCLUSIVE: Bruce Wayne spotted at Wayne Enterprises tonight. And guess who showed up? None other than Catwoman herself. The old flame is back. 👀 #SelinaKyle #BruceWayne #GothamLoveTriangle”

There were pictures. Selina brushing a kiss against Bruce’s cheek. Bruce not moving away.

The smile slipped from Y/N’s face.

Her thumb hovered, then tapped the comments.

“Omg power couple!!” “Selina’s back?? We stan!” “Poor Vivienne lol.”

She shut the phone off.

Outside, thunder rumbled faintly on the horizon, even though no storm had been forecast.

Downstairs, Alfred was setting the kettle to boil when he heard footsteps.

“Y/N?” he called gently.

She appeared at the bottom of the stairs, wrapped in a soft shawl, her expression unreadable.

Alfred took one look and knew. “You saw.”

She nodded.

“Come. Tea?”

She nodded again, following him into the kitchen. The clink of porcelain, the quiet whistle of steam—it all felt too gentle for what thundered inside her.

“I liked her,” Y/N said, after a pause. “Vivienne. She made him better.”

“She did,” Alfred agreed.

“Why does he always chase what hurts him?”

Alfred set the cup down before her. “Because sometimes, child… the past is louder than the present. And Bruce has never been good at listening to the softer voices.”

Y/N held the cup, warming her fingers. “Do you think she’ll come back?”

“I don’t know,” Alfred said honestly. “But I do know this: the right people never really leave. Not truly. They find their way back—if they’re meant to.”

Y/N stared into her tea. Outside, lightning flickered on the horizon.

(Just realized that some parts are missing ARGH!!!)

[itsybitsylemonsqueezy]

Absolutely tragic headcanon warning, but I think this is what went wrong the first time. I think what Jayce saw in the old!Viktor timeline is exactly what happens if Jayce had followed him.

If Jayce doesn't shoot Viktor as the herald, then maybe Viktor dies trying to cure Warwick, or maybe he ascends unimpeded. Maybe by the time he ascends, it's too late for Jayce to stop him, maybe Jayce didn't even try, because he's always believed in Viktor, always trusted him, especially with the hard decisions. Jayce is the only person at the eye of the storm with him and Jayce doesn't die fighting, he dies kneeling. And Viktor learns too late that blind faith is dangerous too. And that love, real love, is not the absence of doubt, but the room for it and trust too.

So Viktor asks him to doubt, to interrupt, even though it will hurt them both. Because only through that pain can they arrive where they wanted to go.

everyone's saying that jayce fumbled viktor but i think they fumbled each other tbh. like yes jayce is crazy for not locking that down sooner and destroying the hexcore like he promised but he was all over that man when he woke up talking about how his place was by his side. viktor could have had a new apostle just like that i fully believe that jayce wouldve followed him all the way to zaun if he let him

[i9chicago]

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. Sweet loving you.

pairing — spencer reid x professor! fem! reader.

genre — smut (18+ so minors dni)

summary — you think you despise dr. spencer reid with all your bones, you think he's too good and too accomplished at what he does, and you think he despises you too. till you discover his particular liking for you that night when he saw you in a red dress.

word count — 9k (i'm so sorry)

warnings — oral (f receiving) fingering, soft dom! spencer cuz it's rotting my brain cells. masturbation. semi-public sex. lots of kissing. reader is a neuroscience professor.

a/n — this is my first fic here so be nice or i'll cry. english is not my first language so forgive me for any grammar mistakes. like for part 2 (please) ehh, i hate the ending. that's it. hope at least you enjoy it! <3

Red was never a color linked to joy. For some, it was the antithesis of calm—an unruly hue brimming with everything those fond of gentler tones tended to avoid: anger, desire, unbridled passion. A color that rose along a scale of relentless intensity, evoking not warmth, but power.

That’s why you chose to wear a crimson dress fitted neatly across your back, for the event. It didn’t need to be overly elegant or striking— just enough to keep you from feeling underdressed. Just enough to give you the confidence to stand tall and lift your chin in a room full of professors and potential future colleagues, the ones you'd meet again in hallways and over hurried lunches. You loved teaching. And truthfully, you didn’t mind being surrounded by university students who emailed you at four in the morning with long-winded excuses dressed up in flowery language to explain why they missed class or hadn’t done the work. You bit your tongue and kept going. People in the field admired your approach to teaching and your background in neuroscience had taken you far—far enough to park your car outside a sleek hotel and walk through its doors to stand among the best. To make your position as a tenured professor feel less like a myth spun into fantasy in your own head—and more like the fact it was becoming.

It was meant to be a calm affair, or so claimed the invitation embossed in gold thread and impeccable calligraphy, which promised a welcoming evening for the newly appointed tenured professors. You were one of them, even though you'd only been teaching for a year. Your heart thudded in erratic rhythms and you clutched your small handbag so tightly your knuckles turned white, the click of your heels echoing across the ceramic-gray tiles. Tilted your head, curious, catching sight of a golden chandelier overhead, mirroring the three-dimensional designs painted into the ceiling. It was such a pivotal moment, and yet, in all the hours spent getting ready, your mind had spiraled through a thousand reasons for things to go wrong. You couldn’t help it. Your head was always turning against you like it took some kind of pleasure in watching you unravel into a mess of nerves and dread, about the room’s reactions, about your own autonomy. Maybe you’d spill wine on your dress. Maybe you’d choke on a piece of ice from a champagne flute. Maybe you'd talk too much and accidentally let slip something painfully personal. The other professors didn’t need to know that. They didn’t need to know anything about you. Still, when alcohol starts to feel like a second skin, you’d promised yourself you’d manage it, one drink every two hours. Enough to keep disaster at bay.

You greeted a few adjunct professors as they passed by, and the moment you stepped into the grand hall, your jaw nearly dropped. The entire place was blue. Neon lights laced the walls, and a young DJ—probably no older than twenty—was spinning electronic remixes of ‘80s hits. It was almost a joke. There were far too many people for this to be just faculty. You doubted it. The entire teaching department must’ve been here, something you hadn’t quite expected. You’d imagined a more traditional venue: jazz music, old money burning through the most expensive drinks at a quiet bar in the corner. Instead, the tables were dressed in white linen with centerpieces of soft blue and white flowers. And suddenly, you felt overwhelmed. You accepted the glass of champagne a waiter offered you, now, it felt less like a choice and more like a necessity. You didn’t see a single familiar face and with the sheer number of bodies crowding the space, heat began to wrap around your bones. Usually, you were good at socializing, at least good enough not to make a fool of yourself. Winning over professors — especially the ones in physics— was a simple task, and the unspoken rule from the arts department was clear: never, under any circumstances, cross them. So yes, faking camaraderie came naturally to you. And with a few drinks, the task became almost idyllic.

You approached a table and picked up a small peach pastry, the sweetness of the powdered sugar melting on your tongue as your eyes scanned the room, now with a faint smudge of red lipstick on the bite. Then, something shifted. You felt it a gaze on the back of your neck. You turned slowly, your breath catching just as your pulse began to quicken.

Spencer Reid. And he was looking at you.

The same who was too ‘good’ to consider a tenured position at the college. The genius. The chosen one. The prodigy. An FBI profiler whose dignity vanished from the young girls in his classes as soon as they saw him or attended his seminars purely to watch him talk and talk and spill random data that none of them really cared about. They just went to see him. And he didn't even notice. Or, if he did, he was perfectly good at turning a blind eye to it.

It made your blood crawl. Cause you spent months hearing praise behind your back about how all his degrees and accomplishments put him in an optimal position to walk the halls as if he were a member of royalty himself. Sometimes you would see him in the gardens talking to some students being so generous and so kind that you would inevitably roll your eyes at his perfect kindness that you wanted to avoid seeing him as soon as possible. Everyone talked about him and you could understand why: He was an excellent prototype of the good man wrapped in good faith. Occasionally, you would meet his gaze at teacher's meetings, passing a cup of coffee in the mornings of pure silent politeness because neither of you had ever conversed in sentences that veered beyond a harmless thank you and good morning. You offered him your best smiles as his fingers brushed yours as you held out the cardboard cup full of black coffee and he would stare longer at your lips before sliding his periphery into your hands and leaving, as if touching you made him burn, as if he ached for the involuntary touch of your skins. Your friends were aware of how much you didn't like at all everything that endorsed his presence, and they didn't understand. You had a stable job. And of almost the same vitality as his. They told you that your reasons for loathing him were ridiculous, childish and, for a moment, they said you just didn't like him because he incarnated in flesh and blood everything you were attracted to in a man. And you were perfect at dismissing that.

Because it was. And that's what you really fucking hated.

You were unlucky. That was it. As if there was some bizarre entity pre-existing that dragged your decisions into an eternal abyss and turned you into a mixture of bad experiences that only increased as the years went by. And Spencer, in theory, seemed to be too surreal. Sure, his proportions as a whole were appropriate. And you had no trouble figuring out why young girls sighed with their hand on their chin every time he opened his mouth. There was no name for what you felt for him. It was just... It was weird. Weird for you, even, because you were used to being around people like him. But never like him. No one was like him.

Maybe your friends were right in saying that your occasional disdain for Spencer was born solely out of a need for adrenaline that you simply stopped paying attention to him. When your eyes met his in the distance, in a crowd, he smiled at you.

Bastard.

He had no right. He had no right to smile warmly at you as he raised his hand slightly in greeting, which he then lowered because of how awkward and absurd it looked. Much less did he have it to look this well melted by a suit that seemed to be itching his skin. With the red tie and the white shirt stuck to his body. All your attempts to pretend to be indifferent when it came to him were more than unsuccessful, in fact, irrational was a better word to describe it. You did nothing more than answer his greeting with a rehearsed smile as you turned to the food table swallowing a couple of those peach snacks, which you simulated with another swig of champagne feeling how the taste of alcohol numbed the few senses you had left one hundred percent. You sighed, much to your dismay, the dress was starting to feel tighter and tighter around your waist and you felt a flash of wind caressing the bare skin of your back. And to think that Spencer was probably watching you sent a searing heat through all your extremities. You stood up on your back and walked to the other end, however, the glass goblet you held in your right hand had a small crack that dug into your palm making you gasp from the sting of the glass against your flesh. Blood, thick and metallic, gushed out in small gushes from the wound. You felt dizzy for a second. And you wanted to go straight to the nearest bathroom.

Spencer followed your figure gliding through the crowd. The music was loud and what he heard from some of the professors, even if he didn't like to admit it (they were a bit older and kind of jerks) he stopped listening to them the moment your eyes connected with his and just lost himself in how he felt his heart rate become erratic. Superficial. He didn't need the world to be quiet to hear his heart racing. And it wasn't in the ingestion of alcohol, so in his glass rested a simple apple cider that he drank with enthusiasm. It was in how you received his perception, he was used to reading between the lines. And he had spent a lot of time reading specifically how you responded to being in his presence. Always evasive. You pleaded silently. He was not indifferent to your avoidance and sometimes caught you looking at him when you thought he didn't notice. In some other context it would seem creepy and worthy of concern. But it was you. All he saw was you. He wanted to see why his limits seemed to be nonexistent when it came to you and everything that warranted your mere objectivity. He listened to you in your classes, giving extensive perorations on the theory of neuroplasticity, and your students raved about you.

There was something irrefutable in how you learned to avoid him with a grace that overwhelmed him. He wished the words you never pronounced could be a clear language. But no. You chose evasion, silence. An elusiveness so subtle that it only left room for curiosity, for the need to understand why you were doing it. As if everything between you was an unwritten dialogue that he couldn't complete.

He could hear the softness of your words as he rummaged deep into his memories, when you talked about the evaluative changes in neuroscience in front of a packed classroom, your voice flowed like a calm river but inside him everything was churning and he didn't even bother to look for its root. It didn't bother him, actually, he was fascinated by how you were able to captivate everyone, and, at the same time, keep him out of your reach.

It killed him. It killed him slowly and torturously how he begged you with the simplicity of his gestures and looks and you purely eluded him. But what killed him the most was that, despite being so close, it always seemed like it wasn't enough. That he never reached that last layer that protected you.

He couldn't help but feel like a doomed voyeur watching as that invisible barricade between you held firm. Talk to me. Look at me. Why not? How long will I endure? Every vestige of desire of his was mounting to catatonic levels.

A cold current was seeping deep into his skin, icing his fingers as he waited, patiently, for some movement, a sign from you.

But nothing.

Only the pleasure of your indifference, so bitter and bewitching, like a trap he didn't know how to escape from. And, damn it, he loved it.

The white walls in the bathroom loomed over you as you walked in hoping for an aid kit somewhere, you looked in the mirror for a moment, realizing how lousy the night was going and you were just getting there. It was supposed to be a good time to continue making friends and finally find more people to have lunch with at noon. You should have seen it coming. You thought for hours about whether it was a good idea to attend and your apartment, not far from the hotel, a few blocks from the venue, was a mess. Dresses strewn across the floor and your cat found the jumble of sleeping fabric in every corner of the house fascinating. The pain in your hand was getting more intense, too strong, unbearable. A burst of burning that intensified every second. You made a point of washing away the bright blood with the water and grimaced at the new coolness and stinging sensation of the cut.

But even the pain didn't lessen the fact that you were thinking about him. And that infuriated you. The gazes that lasted longer than usual, the gestures you avoided and those imperceptible moments charged with something much more substantial. What did you want to do with all of that? Nothing. You couldn't do anything. Spencer was in a completely foreign league to you and you had to respect that.

You didn't even want to imagine what would happen if people at the college found out. People talk, and they don't measure the magnitude of their words and all that a simple hallway rumor could trigger. Like teens. No one should be interested in what two professors were doing outside the institution. And besides, he wasn't even working full time. He was an agent. Even more reason why this growing, heated thing between you two was a flat out no way it was going to happen. It was undermining all your senses. All your good judgment diminishing it to nothing. No, it couldn't happen. The tension was limiting your core beliefs. And as you tried to maintain a control you knew you didn't have, the restlessness in your chest only grew.

As you did everything in you to heal the cut quickly, you heard the faint creak of the door. You raised your head and, in the reflection of the mirror you saw Spencer's figure bursting into the glare of the bathroom lights. You failed to keep calm. Because you had nothing left. Spencer briefly held the handle, his eyes sliding a quick glance between the mess in your hand and the confusion evident on your face, your cheeks flushed, your breathing still uncontrolled. And, without a word, he locked the door.

The sound of the lock clicking echoed in the air, amplifying the tension already vibrating in the space. His scent enveloped you, the warmth of his presence washed over you so tightly that the sting in your cut receded into the background. But for him it seemed otherwise. He stood in front of you so close you could feel his breath, a faint sigh that seemed to touch your skin, make the air thick, dense. He looked at you briefly, straight into your eyes and that's when you understood why you were avoiding him so much. It was him. His gaze. His warmth. Everything about him sucked you in, pulled you in and was all too evident. His intensity was like a force of gravity that drew you in hopelessly. No matter how much you dodged it, no matter how hard you tried to shield yourself from that connection, it was as if the very nature of the situation had determined that the distances between the two of you were simply not viable.

He looked at you as if asking for permission to heal your hand, and though he didn't say it out loud, he didn't need to. The question was in the solid silence between the two of you, in the way he watched you, so close that you could almost feel his thoughts without a single word needing to be uttered. That look, that little action.

You couldn't hide from him.

You, who had always maintained control, felt how he crumbled at the softness of his gesture, at the implicit trust he offered. At how his hands, veiny and warm, took yours with an unspoken hush. You were trapped in his closeness and in his palpable presence. And worst of all, you wanted to stay there, caught in the nervousness of his look, in the subtle touch of his fingers.

You decided to speak. Or else you couldn't stand it any longer. “I should put in a beef about the dangers of champagne glasses.” You said trying to sound normal, calm. But the tension in your voice was so intense that you ignored it, "It was broken, hmm, I guess it's no big deal. It's probably not even deep."

“You're bleeding out here,” he chuckles, and the sound of his laughter, light but kind of warm, sneaks through the cracks in your conscience. You feel his thumb caress the palm of your hand, and the derision in his tone makes you laugh too. He clears his throat, before scanning his gaze around the bathroom for an aid kit. "You need to clean that. Or it'll get infected.”

“No, no. You don't need to ” you whisper, but you let his hand continue to hold you. “I'm fine, really...”

Spencer stopped in front of you, bent down slightly to look at your hand in more detail. “It does need to,” he replied in a slight murmur. "Superficial wounds can be much more dangerous than they appear. In fact, small cuts are more susceptible to infection than larger ones, because they may go unnoticed, but they leave a perfect entrance for bacterias. In this case, if you don't clean and disinfect it, Staphylococcus aureus bacteria are quite common, and that could lead to a serious infection."

You felt a little stunned. The amount of information he dumped on you so quickly left you somewhat entranced. However, the concern on his face was genuine. And it touched you.

Why did he have to look like that?

“Uh, I can't say I knew that.”

“Does it hurt?”

 “Just a bit.” You replied. It was true. But it hurt more that as he looked at you he kept stroking your hand with his thumb and each caress drove you crazy. “Any diagnostic, doctor?”

He laughed, and your heart skipped a beat. God. His smile was even more charming holding you that close. A pair of dimples growing in his cheeks and he effortlessly aroused sensations in you too primal to admit out loud.

“I'm not that kind of doctor,” he whispers, the hint of his smile still visible. “But I need to clean that up for you... It's... It's okay if I do?”

You nodded, not knowing what to answer. Her gaze slid across the bathroom coming across a small white box resting on the counter. He turned away from you for brief seconds and, though it was a flicker in time, you felt the emptiness he left. You missed his touch and felt pathetic. So simple. So insignificant. And yet he still managed to unsettle you

Why did his closeness make you feel exposed, vulnerable? You knew something between the two of you was changing, but was it something you really wanted? Or rather, something you could afford to want?

It didn't give you time to think as he stepped in front of you again and wiped a cotton ball with antiseptic. Taking your hand again, the cool sensation of the antiseptic with the warmth of his fingers pressing against you making a twisted contrast of what it was. It was soft. It was gentle. As if he feared to break you with the simplicity of his caress. He was exalted, you could tell by the way he was breathing through his nose and his chest was rising and falling in a continuous back and forth. You couldn't help but think how, for a second, it seemed like the rest of the world disappeared, and all that was left was him. Just him.

“I'm sorry,” he murmured, breaking the silence. “I don't mean to make you uncomfortable.”

It was strange to hear him say that. Because how could he not know that discomfort was, in fact, what made you feel so alive? The vulnerability, the not knowing what was going on between you and the uncertainty you felt in his every gesture. It was all there, hovering between the two of you, and you weren't saying anything about it. You just held each other in this delicate balance that you longed to break.

“You don't.” you said quickly, "It's dumb. I probably wouldn't have done it. I'm not good at this stuff, the last time my cat scratched my whole arm and I'm pretty sure I made the scratches even worse."

Spencer looked up, and for a moment, his expression softened. “I just don't want you to think I'm invading your space,” he said, and the sincerity in his voice was like a soft punch to the chest.

Spencer curved his lips, barely a smile. He continued his slow, meticulous movements cleaning your wound with a precision that was hard to ignore. Every time his finger brushed your skin it was like lighting a thousand matches inside you.

 “This isn't so bad,” he murmured, as he carefully cleaned the area around the cut. “It could have been so much worse.”

“Well, hopefully I'm not bleeding to death,” you replied with a small touch of humor. The slight stinging in the wound when the antiseptic touched your skin was somewhat tolerable now, and his presence somehow made you feel calmer.

And, of course, you decided not to pay attention to the closeness of his face and that incipient beard that adorned it perfectly. All over his jaw, you had the urge to touch it and put the fingers of your free hand on the fabric of your dress as if it contained all those growing desires.

“Hopefully not” Spencer laughed, not looking away from your hand. "It's not that dramatic, but you know, some people faint over something as simple as this. The body's reaction to minimal pain can be interesting."

“Really? How?”

You knew the answer. But hearing him speak for you was a necessity now and you decided to take advantage of every second.

"The fear of pain and the physiological reaction is more prevalent than it seems, that's all kind of like a mind game. That it thinks you have something, when the damage is likely to be minimal.”

“And I assume that if there was anyone here passed out, it would be me.” you said, shaking your head and looking at the wound with mock concern. "Yeah, I should have guessed. I cannot tolerate pain.”

Spencer let out a genuine laugh, a laugh that made the air around the two of you feel less tense.

“Definitely,” he said with a laugh. “But don't worry, I'll keep an eye on you.”

“Good to know.”

He continued cleaning and gently placed a children's band-aid (from some cartoon you couldn't recognize) over your cut, now clean and out of harm's way. Were his eyes always this bright or was it the glare of the white lights? And his lips, his lips. Slightly splendorous from whatever he was drinking before he came in. You swallowed saliva, feeling the heat rising to your cheeks as he seemed to have scanned across your face and the bathroom was flooded by a couple of giggles that pretended to say a lot, but was nothing. It wasn't awkward, but that kind of silence that hovered over you and enveloped you in a still atmosphere that you countered with the rowdiness outside. You sat on the countertop, the coldness of the ceramic hitting your thighs hoping he wouldn't leave. You lay your head back in the mirror, and Spencer's head shorted out.

He didn't know how much more he was capable of taking, if he was fit to drown everything that came into his head when he saw through the mirror's reflection that curve of your back, smooth, perfect. The red dress tight to every curve fitting in the right places and that lipstick, lightly smeared across your lower lip. He put his hands in his pockets and swallowed thickly. Your eyes traveled down his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down with nervousness and notoriety.

“You didn't seem to be enjoying yourself over there" you say amused, your voice tired. "I don't blame you. Teachers' humors are crap."

Spencer nods, standing in front of you. Your knee brushing against the fabric of his dress pants. "I usually enjoy theoretical physics jokes but there's a point where it gets repetitive and boring. If I'm honest, I was looking forward to getting out of there.”

The laugh you let out was soft, almost intimate, as if only he was meant to hear it. Spencer drank it in as if it were something sacred. His fingers, still warm from touching you, flexed in his pants pockets, trying to contain the absurd need to brush against you again. 

“Spencer Reid?” you repeated with an arched eyebrow, watching him with a vague smile as you leaned your head back against the mirror a little more. "You must have the highest tolerance for repetitive. You analyze it, dissect it. You find patterns in it, revel in it. I thought you were used to it.”

Spencer tilted his head slightly, tickled by your remark. His eyes roamed over your face with a scrutiny that made you hold your breath. He didn't seem to be looking at you out of mere habit anymore, it seemed he couldn't even help himself. You cleared your throat, but his closeness was brutal. He smelled like aftershave, so strong that the scent drugged you completely.

"Maybe you're right, but there are exceptions. There are always exceptions to the rule, no matter how much I'd rather abide by them." he said, this time turning to you and you swore your heart was going to jump out of your rib cage.

His hands slowly came out of his pockets, and he leaned lightly on the countertop to the side of you. His arm almost brushed your thigh and for an instant you thought he would do it on purpose, that he would trace the fabric of your dress with his fingertips. That he would dare. And you thought how good it would feel to be on his hands, long fingers and protruding veins, holding you like a longing.

“And is tonight one of those exceptions?” you asked, tilting your face toward him, watching him closely. 

His throat worked in a strained swallow. "I'm sure it is.”

A shiver ran down your spine. Your breathing got slower, deeper. Your inhibitions out of you. His knuckles, distracted, barely grazed your knee in a touch so light it might have gone unnoticed if it weren't for all your skin igniting in response. Spencer froze at his own boldness, but didn't immediately pull his hand away. Instead, he exhaled slowly through his nose, and his eyelashes lowered slightly as he looked back up at you. All content, his eyes dancing all over your face.

He didn't move. 

He didn't leave. 

The air in the bathroom seemed to thicken as Spencer leaned forward gently, closing the distance with torturous slowness as if to give your body time to react, to reject him. But you didn't. And you had no plans to either. Your back brushed against the mirror, the coolness of the glass seeping through the thin dress as Spencer's warmth enveloped you from the front. His hands continuing to rest on the countertop on either side of your legs, locking you in with devastating ease.

He was tense. You could see it in his jaw. The line of his throat working as he swallowed saliva with visible effort. Almost instinctively, you tilted your head, and mentally beat yourself up as you thought you could ignore or simply disregard everything that revolved around him because it was impossible. You hesitated on whether to do that thing that was killing you so much, to touch his face, to caress his cheek. Let him do something. His gaze made you breathless. Dark, intense. Fixed on you and only you. His dark, chocolate irises, a hazel hue that you could finally detail up close.

He had the most beautiful eyes you'd ever seen.

“Why do you keep avoiding me so much?” his voice was a whisper, but you felt it throughout your body. His breath was warm with a minty undertone, it brushed your mouth. "Did I...did I do something to bother you? I didn't say anything bad about you, if you were wondering. I have eidetic memory, I would remember if I was rude to you at any time.”

You found yourself caught between need and uncertainty. Your hands rested on your thighs, and you wanted him to push them away. Spencer saw it. He saw it in the way your eyelashes quivered in a flutter that sent shocks through his body, in how your gaze dropped fleetingly to his mouth before returning to his eyes, in the way your chest rose and fell too fast, too erratically. 

His knuckles brushed the fabric of your dress with calculated carelessness, a light touch on your right thigh that made everything in you tense with an internal jolt. There was no urgency in his movement. Only a torturous patience, an unspoken question in the way his skin tested yours. As if testing the ground.

A restrained sigh escaped your throat, almost inaudible, but he heard it. 

“You didn't do or say anything bad about me, Spencer.” you murmur, your voice sharp. "It was my thing. I make movies all the time in my head. I think I was just jealous.”

His brow furrowed in confusion. His knuckles still moving in a steady rhythm over the fabric of your dress, “Jealous? Why would you be jealous?”

Your tongue fleetingly moistened your upper lip. His gaze followed the movement with unsettling thoroughness, his fingers twitching subtly on the countertop. You were unconsciously tasting him. And it delighted you to watch his jaw clench.

“I guess you're too good to be real.” you let out an irony-laden laugh, "It's lame. Don't mind me. I actually thought you didn't like me."

“Why would you think that?” he sounded almost offended, incredulous at what you just said as he let his fingers trail southward away from the red fabric. It was silk, fine silk that hugged your thighs beautifully. His fingers were just as warm on your skin and you shivered as his caresses went up and down. Paulatine, subtle, but it made your hair stand on end. And the way he whispered your name... Almost like a longing held on his tongue, like a heavenly prayer. "I've done nothing but silently wanted you. If you only knew... How long I've been saving this. Keeping you. As if just looking at you was enough.”

Your lips parted, but the words stuck in your throat. As if every particle had stopped in time, leaving them suspended in that instant where nothing else existed except the way he touched you. His hand slid, slow, barely perceptible, but enough to set your skin on fire. His fingers traced invisible lines over your thigh with a devotion that left you gasping for breath, memorizing the texture of your skin, the way you reacted under his touch.

“I'm sorry,” you murmured, it was the only thing that could come out of your mouth. Your voice cracked, feeling the pressure building in your chest, in your belly, in every nerve ending in your body. 

A sound escaped from his throat. Low. Grave. As if the confession had managed to shake something inside him. 

His hands moved, with deliberate leisure, barely moving up the curve of your thigh before clinginging to the flesh. His torso was so close you could feel the heat radiating from him, the racing beat of his heart pounding in sync with yours.

"No, don't be sorry" his voice was a whisper, his lips against your temple. They were so close you could feel them, a temptation suspended in the air. The edge of his nose brushed yours, a touch so thin, so intimate, that a shiver danced down your back. "I guess it's my fault for not talking to you in the first place. But if you'll let me... I promise not to ask for more than you're willing to give. Because having you anyway is already more than I ever thought I deserved."

God. 

You couldn't think, not when he was there, so tangible, so immensely real, tearing down every barrier you'd ever built between the both of you. 

His fingers came up again, this time with less hesitation, brushing the inside of your thigh in a barely perceptible movement, but one that sent an electric whiplash up and down your spine. If you moved a little, just a little, he would brush the fabric of your panties.

"Spencer..." his name was a breath caught in your mouth, a plea, a surrender.

He took it. He took your exhalation and made it his own. He kissed you with the kind of awe with where someone touches something sacred for the first time. His mouth rested on yours in a brush that contained months of longing compressed into a single instant. So violently that your body tensed. His lips moved gracefully over yours and his hands squeezed the flesh of your thighs as if he was holding back from touching you further. At first it was slow, painfully slow, waiting for you to refuse. But you had no intention of it. You sensed how his tongue brushed your lower lip in an invitation to thrust inside you, and the sweet gasp that came from your mouth in delight entranced him. He sensed it in the way your fingers reached up to grasp at the lapels of his suit, clinging to him as if you were about to collapse.

Kissing Spencer was just how you imagined it would be. Addictive. Teeth and tongues in a rough dance, he was stunned by how you responded to his caresses. By how your hands stopped trembling and rested on the back of his neck, in his hair, pulling him closer to you till you melted into a lingering kiss. Spencer moaned against your mouth, a harsh, restrained sound that reverberated between the both of you, becoming a vibration that traveled down your backbone and spread in torrid heat throughout your body. His fingers, which until now had traced a contained path over superficial parts of your body, twitched over the skin of your thigh, sinking just barely into the soft flesh, as if he needed to hold on to something in particular to keep from twisting his grip. He was losing it completely.

The kiss became hungrier, more impatient. His tongue slid against yours in a fiery, deep caress as his other hand moved up the curve of your back, pressing you against him as if trying to memorize every inch of your body. You shivered from just feeling his touch on your back and how that slit in your dress gave him the opportunity to move down a little.

Every scrape of his lips against yours was a silent confession, every halting gasp a secret that slipped out without the need for words. 

Spencer wasn't doing anything by halves, and kissing you was the ultimate proof of that. He was feeling you with every fiber of his being. He was drinking you in with the devotion of a thirsty man finally finding water in the middle of a forsaken desert.

With every particle of his autonomy, with every heaving breath that escaped his throat and the way his body pressed against yours, drawing closer and closer until the air between you ceased to exist. His hand, the one that had traveled up the curve of your back, slid with exasperating slowness to the base of your nape, tangling in your hair. Wrapping itself around the strands of your locks.

As if afraid you might fade away.

His other hand went up another inch, and when his fingertips brushed the thin fabric of your panties, a fierce thrill ran through you, arching your back involuntarily at his touch. Wanting more. That he would turn his attentions upon you. He sensed it in the way your nails scratched his hairline, in how your thighs trembled under his caresses and the sudden gasp that escaped from your mouth, imprisoned in his. 

He pulled away just a few millimeters, just enough to be able to look at you. To see the slight tremble of your lips swollen by his kisses, the febrile shine in your eyes. His breath collided against your skin, warm and ragged, and in the thick silence of the bathroom, his breath seemed an echo of yours. 

The Adam's apple in his throat rose and fell in an effort to swallow saliva. 

"I can't believe we missed this just because we had misconceptions about each other." he whispered, as if he found it hard to speak, as if the words scraped his throat as they came out, "You don't know all you do to me."

"I think I have an idea." you said, stunned. With a slow smile curving your mouth as your hands went back up to his cheeks, his beard stinging your fingers, "But I think I'm starting to like it when you show me."

A low growl escaped his chest before he took your mouth again, and no fantasy could match how good it felt to be in his arms. His kisses were intoxicating, tongue everywhere, low moans sending shocks straight to the recent growing bulge in his pants. He held your jaw and claimed you. And you loved it. You melted into him. Your hands took advantage of traveling to his neck, his cheeks, his shoulders. You could spend hours like that. There was a latent tension in his muscles, in the visible struggle between his control and his desire, in the way his dark gaze devoured every detail of you. His hands were so big, gripping your face as you moved closer until you wrapped your legs around him, your thighs at his sides.

Spencer pulled away, he was a mess. His brown hair tousled and his lips glossy and swollen from you. His thumb traced a sweet line over your lower lip. "You're beautiful," he exhales briefly. "So beautiful.”

You pull him by the neck and kiss him again. Hopeless. Hungry. You were sure the denim of your lingerie was wet and that he could feel it. You move your hips moaning against his mouth from the friction of your center against his pants. Spencer noticed your need, and his knee began to rub you. Slowly, feeling you contract from the pleasure. Your dress rode up over your thighs and he pulled them almost all the way up, to the level of your hips, allowing himself to revel in the matching lace of your wet panties. Soaked. For him. His right hand slid to your chest and groped your dress, seeking to pull it down. You nodded in agreement still with your lips on his, letting him know you needed him. That he would touch you. It was a slight effort, but with blind skill he lowered the top of your dress.

"I'm surprised at how skillfully you did that," you whispered between kisses. You hear his laugh, hoarse and throaty, as his knee continued to rub your center, and you cried out. A low cry that you silenced by biting your tongue.

"If it makes you feel any better, I thought as soon as I saw you come in." he said resting his forehead with yours. Widening his hands below your knees, and when he stretched a little, the breath caught in his throat.

You looked like a gorgeous wreck. Your lipstick was running, your barely visible red lace bra made your hardened nipples noticeable and the feel of the cold made them hard as rocks. Spencer kissed you. Quick, fleeting, placing his thumb and forefinger against your right nipple and pressing it, making you turn your eyes. His touch sent tingles all over your body, no matter how small or large, the mere fact that he was touching you was driving you crazy.

His kisses descend to your neck, leaving soft bites in an everlasting path. He nibbles that spot on your pulse and you tremble. Your hand touching his curls as you gasped uncontrollably.

"You're..." he began, but the word was lost in your neck. He kissed the curve of your collarbone, the racing pulse in your throat. " You're devastating.”

He scattered sporadic kisses across your neck and suddenly you felt like you were out of orbit when his fingers found your panties. Stroking you over the fabric. You wiggled your hips in search of more friction and melted into his arms. He teased both of your nipples. He kissed you with such vehemence and eagerness. It was simply too much. Your eyes traveled to the bulge in his sweatpants, and you had that urge to touch him again. It was big, you deduced immediately by how the fabric of the pants fit painfully around the outline of his cock. Your hand barely grazed it as he pushed you away and returned his kisses to your lips. Tugging at them. Biting, sucking with impetus.

"Is that good or bad?" you asked curving your back.

Spencer looked up from his spot, his eyes burning with an intensity so pure it took your breath away. "It's all I want.”

He bent down with only one knee digging into the floor, and your brain lit up. You were aware of what he was about to do and you pressed your thighs together, almost reluctantly. In response, he put his hands on your knees and looked at you over his long eyelashes and his eyes sparkling from all the excitement that was only growing more and more. No, he had no right to look at you like that. To have you at his mercy with just a kiss. To look so needy for you. 

"Don't get shy now." he said, his fingers squeezing the hypersensitive flesh of your thighs to open them for him again. "I want to touch you, please, angel. Let me show you how much I've needed you. How much I've longed to touch you, please, can I?"

His plea turned you to plasticine. It was a desperation rooted from deep in your chest and the mere thought that he had imagined this precise scene in the past turned you on. That maybe he had it all planned out and now he was kneeling before you basically begging to touch you. Your hand reached out to his curls, stroking his brown, unruly hair and you nodded as your lips curved into a smile that Spencer was quick to retort.

"Of course, I wasn't going to let you leave me like that and then leave." you whisper in amusement, holding his face "You owe me.”

Spencer smiled at you, sweet, almost too sweet for the kind of look he gave you. Filled with desire, with something far, vastly stronger than you. His fingers groping the edges of your panties. Swiftly pulling them down to your ankles. You shuddered at the change in sensations, the gusts of wind setting your nipples on edge and his gaze fixed on your cunt enveloped you in a cloud too intense for your brain to function properly. He looked at you with dilated pupils, licked his lips slowly as if tasting you on it.

"I owe you, huh?" he said, pressing a kiss on your inner thigh. Then on the other. "I guess I should make it up to you, right? Is that what you want?"

You nodded frantically, but he bit down on a thin layer of skin and you gasped.

"Use your words, angel."

"I..." you doubted that your head could work correctly, his touch sent tingles through parts of your body unthinkable. "Fuck, Spencer. Just do it.”

"So desperate." he whispered, his tongue beginning to lick the wetness of your thigh. You swayed in response to the sensation, your back arching as your hands involuntarily moved up to your nipple, pinching and stimulating. You needed to feel him everywhere. It was disarming you. "Have you thought about this, do you think I don't notice when you look at me, when you sneak into my classes?”

He grabbed you by the knees and pulled you into his mouth with such speed that you didn't even have time to get used to the thrill. Fuck. His mouth was desperate, he licked your folds and his curls hide between your legs. You'd let him sleep right at dawn right there. You moaned his name so loud that you were thankful the music outside was so loud no one could hear, 'cause you needed that. You needed to scream how much you enjoyed it and when Spencer gasped in delight, your whole body jerked. A rough hand gripped your thigh, his thumbs pressing into your skin, holding you open just for him. To keep you from shivering. His tongue was relentless. He swirled with precision, sucked you with intensity and reserved kisses for your clit. You rolled your eyes and your hips followed in a back and forth motion over his mouth, surrendering yourself completely to the pleasure.

There was a heat swirling over your belly, over your bloated, hypersensitive center. You shuddered and Spencer hummed above you as you tightened his head making him bury himself in your pussy. You were drunk, it was vertiginous, too much to bear.

He pulled away slightly, his breathing ragged. You couldn't see him because he was still hiding between your legs but the image was projected in your head instantly. His lips glossy from your wetness, yearning for more. The fibers of his hair messy from your pulls "How did I not notice before that you are this beautiful?" he kissed one of your folds and your back flexed again. "That you taste so good…”

Your whole body jerked in pleasure as he sealed his lips on your clit. Sucking. Drinking. Opening his mouth wide and devouring every nerve of you like a starving man. As if you were his last entrée that he would hesitate to ravish for how exquisite it was. One hand came up and took away yours that was caressing your boobs, his now cold fingers closing on them. His hand was large. It went all the way around you and pressed your hard, overstimulated nipple between the middle of his fingers.

"Spencer," you moaned, your thighs trembling and his mouth devouring your cunt with vigor, "It's too much. Sensitive."

His mouth closed on you again, your hips still twitching at him. Pleasure engulfed you, your stomach contracted and you swore you saw nebulae and tiny stars the moment his tongue sucked slowly at your slit. It curved, it teased you, driving you to your limit.

"No, not yet" he groaned against your skin, but his fingers didn't falter for a single second. The bundle of stimulation cut your lungs out. "Just one, yes? Can you give it to me, angel?"

You barely nodded as he returned to devouring you. He wanted to take you to the last of your strength. Heat coiled in your stomach and your heart was about to burst out of your chest. Irregular beats that succumbed you in instant pleasure. His tongue licked in one last long line in your pussy that tore out a scream that you stifled by biting your lip. The release of your orgasm taking you elsewhere. You were trapped in ecstasy. Your limbs ached and you needed him more and more. His breath was warm as he pulled away and kissed your mons pubis, testing, seeing how much more you could take. It made your hair stood on edge.

"You had this well planned, hmm?" you whimpered in a murmur, feeling the sequels of your first orgasm shaking your body, "I bet you've thought about it too. About how good it would feel to have me in your hands, is that it? Did you want me so bad you couldn't do anything but imagine it?”

He growled in reply, and the sound made your blood rise. Time slowed down around you and for a moment you forgot there was a whole party going on outside. But all you could think about was that you had Spencer on his knees for you, his erection probably being too painful for him and yet he continued to kiss you and tasted all of your senses. The pressure of his lips was deep worship, in restrained cravings that would sooner or later explode into frenzy. Your head fell against the mirrored glass as now his fingers curved lightly to touch your cunt in search of more. He added a finger, then another, patiently opening you up. Your hips throbbed again from the overstimulation, your brow furrowing as he rose and began to spread kisses all over your face.

"You have no idea, I asked myself that every night I pretended I didn't care about you more than I should have." he murmured, his palm pressed against your clit and his bulge in his pants pressed against your thigh, in pursuit of a delicious friction you both needed. You were at his mercy completely. You lowered your head and rested your forehead on his shoulder, feeling his fingers move nimbly inside you. "And each time, the answer was yes. I wanted you so much that it hurts. Do you think you can give me one more, sweetheart?"

You nodded again and that sweet moan that came out of your mouth when he added a third finger made you see stars. Your eyes closed, you impaled yourself on his hand until you felt Spencer silencing as best he could his moans by stifling them with his own lips, still glistening from your arousal.

He continued touching you. Kissing you with ardor. And you questioned if you would have done this if you were both talking to each other instead of immediately deducing that you disliked each other. You were an idiot. Because from now on you didn't want to be in the hands of any man but Spencer. You didn't want to see another face. Neither did you want to go back to the normal course of your life when he had brought you to a point of no return that you never reached with anyone else.

"Just like that," he whispered, kissing that dangerous spot in the area of your racing pulse. Provocatively. "Fucking my hand. Gasping for me. You're so good. So beautiful. I can't get enough of you."

He bit back a slim layer of skin, and you moaned.

"Spencer..." you hissed, leaning your hips into him, "Fuck.”

You glimpsed his frown trying to concentrate on your own pleasure, but his hips bucked and he rubbed at your inner thighs, you could almost see some pre seminal liquid pouring out of his pants and the sight made you rush at his touch. His fingers curled, you grabbed him by the cheeks and kissed him as you bucked unconsciously and the surges of your second orgasm filled you up to your ears. Spencer gasped as you came in his hand, and he was precious. Beautiful, dark eyes, rosy cheeks and fully swollen, glowing lips. Your breaths hitched in unison as he pulled his hand away from you and you brushed back the strands of hair that clung to his sweaty forehead.

You give him a smile, tired, and his head does nothing but spin. At the need, at how good it felt to finally touch you and feel you collapse into him. At how masterful you perceived better than all the times he imagined what it would be like. A giggle escapes from his lips, pressing a kiss to your temple, his warm breath spreading over your skin, and his hand, almost by instinct, moved up your abdomen in a lazy rubbing tracing distracted circles. Now yours played with the hairs at the nape of his neck and you let yourself drift in the sweet silence surrounding you.

"Hmm," he whispered. "It took us longer to heal your wound."

You opened your mouth in an offended gesture, hitting him gently but you didn't have the strength for much. His body vibrated from his laughter, and you loved it. "I want to see you say that later. We'll see who gets the last laugh and it will definitely be me.”

Spencer looked at you with those deer-eyed eyes full of tenderness that your knees felt weaker. He left another soft kiss on your cheek and you hummed in delight at the gesture. Slipping your arms around his shoulders, hugging him. Melting into him.

"Whatever you say, angel." he said with his eyes closed. "We still have time."

It was as if the entire universe had shrunk to that instant. The feel of your skin against his effortlessly banishing everything you felt for him before. Of knowing he craved you as much as you craved him. His breath attached to yours, coupled in a quiet, slightly agitated rhythm, just enough to fill the bathroom with him.

You leaned your forehead against his shoulder, feeling the slow waves of his breathing, and for a moment you felt light. As if in that minuscule piece where nothing bad could reach you. As if he was the refuge you had always wanted to return to without knowing it.

"Do we have it?" you repeated softly, shyly, almost as a question to yourself.

Spencer nodded, his nose brushing against your temple."We have all the time in the world if you're with me.”

Your lips pursued his just because the words got stuck in your mouth, this time in a more chaste kiss. One that tasted of rest, of complicity. And your heart was beating so fast you could hear its beat rewinding in your ears.

"I like you so much," you murmured against his mouth, barely a whisper. "I reiterate that I'm concerned about all the effects you have on me.”

His hands traced slow figures on your back, the whisper of his voice lulling you low:

"Then let's be scared together. It's much safer for both of us, isn't it?"

And you did. You closed your eyes, sank into him... And, for the first time in a while, you didn't care what came next.

[letjungk09k]

My knight

Main Masterlist

.ᐟ pairing. ⤑ Knight!Sylus x Princess!Reader (no use of y/n).

.ᐟ synopsis. ⤑ He was always composed, always unreadable behind that stoic expression. But when the castle lights dimmed he found himself alone in his chambers, his cock in his hand and thoughts of you curling through his mind. That was when the composure crumbled.

You’d always been dangerous to him but tonight… tonight you pushed him too far. You didn’t even know it or maybe you did. Maybe that was what made it worse.

.ᐟ word count. ⤑ 16k posted on my ao3.

.ᐟ WARNINGS, mdni!!. ⤑ explicit sexual content, royalty au, very much shameless smut, reader is a brat, sylus is a brat tamer, loss of virginity, strip tease, female masturbation, forced orgasm, cock warming, knight x princess relationship, dirty talk/thoughts, finger sucking, hand kink if u look closely... praise kink, size kink, size difference, sylus is a bit of a tease, p in v sex, MESSYYYY (i mean messy) kissing, tongue sucking, bit of an open ending! (but i may revisit this.......)

.ᐟ A/N. this IS an open ending but if you keep sylus' personality in mind, you'll come up w a conclusion fitting to him :3 (i also might revisit this, no promises)

enjoy!

The perfect fucking princess.

Always so pristine, so untouchably elegant. Even in the quiet hours, when the castle fell into sleep and night draped itself over the stone walls you were never anything less than stunning. Soft skin that glowed in the candlelight, lips faintly tinted, hair braided like something out of a story. It was long, glossy and neat. Even the way you dressed, delicate silks covered in fine embroidery, each gown carefully chosen not just for its beauty, but for the way it curved around your body, the way it clung and fell.

You were meant to be looked at, admired. It was the duty of every person with royal blood.

And they did. Princes, dukes, noble sons from faraway kingdoms, they paraded into court with promises and jewelled offerings, all of them tripping over their own tongues just for a chance to impress you, to win you. The perfect prize, as if you were something to be won.

But they were never good enough, they never even came close.

Because what they wanted was the fantasy. What they saw was the surface, and none of them could handle what lived underneath it all. The sharp tongue, the clever wit, the way your eyes narrowed in defiance when something didn’t go your way. None of them could tame you.

Sylus knew that, he knew you.

Knew that behind your perfect smile was a mind that never yielded. That behind the firm posture you held and the poise way you spoke was a streak of bratty defiance you wielded constantly. You were stubborn, mouthy and impossible and you were never worse than you were with him.

You said things you had no right to say and things he had no right to hear. Your voice soft and curious, laced with amusement, your gaze lingering just a second too long. You let your fingers linger when you ghost touched his arm, leaned in when you spoke like you were telling him a secret, like the two of you shared something sacred. You smiled like you knew what you were doing to him. Like you could feel the way his jaw tensed, the way his hands twitched at his sides when you got too close.

And maybe you could, maybe you knew exactly what you were doing when you let your laughter spill over him, when you tilted your head and looked up at him through your lashes, when you ran your fingers slowly, so slowly along the edge of your wine glass and asked if your dress looked appropriate.

You were relentless, and he was only a man.

A man sworn to protect you. To guard you with his life, to keep his distance and uphold his title, his duty, his control. But you made it impossible. Every word out of your mouth made him ache, every passing glance, every accidental brush of your body against his in a corridor it all stirred something dangerous in him.

There were fleeting moments where he let his mind slip. Let it imagine your lips parted beneath his, your breath catching as he pressed you into your silk sheets, his name falling from your tongue. Moments where he let the idea of it sink its claws into him. Taking you slowly, ruining your innocence and leaving you ruined for anyone else.

Because he would ruin you.

He’d leave his mark on your skin, in your thoughts, deep in the part of you no one else would ever touch. He’d remind you with every kiss, every thrust, every whispered command that no one especially not one of those pretty little suitors could ever satisfy you the way he would. Because he knew you, all of you. The sweetness and the sharp edges, the princess and the brat and he wanted every goddamn inch of you.

You were his perfect fucking princess and he was going to break himself trying to stay away.

Every time you whined, every time you pouted, it was like a knife straight through his restraint. You knew what you were doing to him, you always knew and it was even worse when he knew you did it on purpose.

His thoughts spiralled back to that night just a week ago, when you'd stood in the centre of your room, arms folded across your chest like you were the queen of the world. Your night gown had shimmered in the moonlight but it wasn’t the silk he noticed, no it was the fire in your eyes. And your hardened nipples poking through the fabric. He saw the defiance, the way you would throw your chin up as if daring him to challenge.

"I’m not wearing this" you had said, practically sneering at the dress laid out for you to wear to some royal event.

And of course, Sylus had been the one tasked with convincing you, not that you made it easy. You had stood there, giving him that pout. The one that drove him to the edge every damn time, the same pout you used to coax everyone into bending to your will.

But not him. No, never him. He had tried to reason with you, his tone firm as always.

"Princess, the attire is fitting for the occasion. You have to—"

"I don’t care" you had interrupted, rolling your eyes and your voice dripping with that bratty edge he’d learned to loathe and love in equal measure "I’m not wearing it"

He remembered the sharp tug in his chest when you moved your fingers up to your neckline, imaging what the dress would look like on you. The softness, it put him in a trance and it made him realise how badly he wanted you. Every inch of him screamed to pull you into him, to kiss that defiance out of you. But he didn't, he definitely couldn’t.

Instead he’d stood there, rigid as stone with his jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

"Princess, I can't have this discussion again" He’d said it with as much control as he could muster. But in his head... his thoughts were anything but controlled.

He wanted to see you in that dress, wanted to see you squirm in it as he took his time pushing you to the edge of your composure like you did to him. He wanted to pull you close, to rip that dress off your body and to feel your soft skin under his hands and taste the sharpness of your stubbornness.

You had known, of course. You always knew. The way you'd smile, that damn smirk that said you were testing him again, pushing and waiting for him to snap.

"You’re no fun, Sylus" you’d say, voice so sweet but with a wicked edge "If you’re so good at keeping me in line, why don’t you show me how well you can do it?"

And it had been almost too much.

It wasn’t the first time. There had been countless moments like that, where you had acted like the perfect little princess, then flipped the switch and become the spoiled, bratty girl he knew you could be. But gods, he loved it.

Another time before that you were slouched in your seat at the royal dining hall, your arms crossed tightly over your chest as you glared down at your plate. The meal in front of you, a spread of meats and cheeses and pastries was untouched. It was all for you and yet you were sat there with narrowed eyes and lips pressed together in a perfect pout.

Sylus, who was stood beside you as he always was, didn't miss a single detail. He knew very well the look you had when things didn't go your way, although he wasn't sure what it was now. It was infuriating and yet somehow, it was something that always twisted inside him. He hated that you did this but he couldn’t deny how much it got under his skin.

"Princess" he had said, his voice low and measured, betraying none of the emotions boiling beneath the surface "You’re not eating"

His gaze was cool, but you could feel the weight of his words in the way his eyes locked on you. His voice was firm, an order, like the way he spoke to the soldiers. 

You only sighed, letting the air rush from your chest as if the whole situation was beneath you. You raised your eyes slowly to meet his, barely glancing up before turning your gaze away again.

"I’m not hungry" you muttered, voice laced with that familiar bratty edge "The food’s not even good"

"You’ve eaten less than a bite"

You didn’t respond, merely pushing your plate further away from you. Your lip jutted out slightly as you resisted the urge to say anything else. So fucking cute.

Sylus didn't look away, his hands clasped behind his back in a firm stance. His silence was deliberate, not giving you the satisfaction of seeing him react to your childishness despite how much he wanted to.

"You can’t just decide not to eat because you don’t like something" he said, each word was deliberate "If you’re hungry, you’ll eat"

His words though stern, held a subtle weight and something in the pit of your stomach clenched. You knew he was right, but you hated that he was. You just liked the way he was firm with you.. you liked the way he commanded you.

You wanted to argue, to say that you didn’t care and that you would do whatever you wanted but you knew better than to take that route with him. There was a brief pause before you spoke again, your voice dripping with challenge.

"I don’t care" you said, and there was a slight whine creeping into your tone "It doesn’t matter to me. I don’t want to eat it"

"You’re being stubborn" he said, his words blunt and final "And you’re acting like a child"

Your head snapped up, eyes meeting his, that defiant spark flaring in your eyes

"I’m not a child" you shot back. I'm 23, you wanted to scream in his face, I'm a grown fucking woman.

"No, you’re not" Sylus agreed, his voice colder than ice "But you're acting like one"

For a moment, you looked like you were going to argue again but the coldness in his voice made you pause. You knew that look... the one where he wouldn’t bend. The one where he wouldn’t indulge you, no matter how hard you tried.

"You will eat" Sylus continued, not raising his voice but carrying an unspoken weight of authority "and you will stop this childish behaviour, princess"

Finally you slumped in your seat, rolling your eyes as you grabbed your fork and stabbed a piece of meat. You watched him the whole time you did, as if to say fine, happy now? The act was an exaggerated display of defiance and it made Sylus' mouth twitch upward despite himself.

"Next time, princess" Sylus said, his voice was softer now as you ate with a roll of your eyes "don’t waste both of our time. You know I don’t tolerate disobedience"

He loved how you challenged him. Loved how you tested him in every way, always acting like you didn’t need anyone but knowing deep down that you wanted him and needed him to keep you in check.

You had no idea how much it tore him apart to watch you pretend like you didn’t care. To stand there so close and smile at him like you knew exactly what effect you were having. The way your lips curled with mischief, the way you knew the exact right words to say to push him to the brink. He knew it was wrong.

Knew it, he had sworn an oath to protect you, to be your knight not your lover. His duty was clear and no matter how hard he fought it he couldn’t let go of the responsibilities that came with his position. He couldn’t let himself be distracted.. but he already was.

The real danger lay in how you knew it. You knew how you made him feel. How you got under his skin, how just a single moment with you could unravel him completely. You were becoming more aware and that realisation made him feel like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, one wrong move and he’d fall.

He hated how you made him feel. He hated how your bratty attitude and sweet smiles made his resistant crack every time, but more than that…

He loved it.

Loved that you didn’t care, loved that you pushed. Loved how every word you whispered made his blood burn hotter and worse, he loved how despite everything, despite all the reasons he shouldn’t, he was constantly drawn to you.

It wasn’t just about the physical attraction. It wasn’t just about the way your body seemed to beg for his touch, or the way your voice could go from sweet to sharp in an instant no, it was more than that. It was about how you made him feel alive. Made him feel like something was at stake, like there was something real between you, even if it was never spoke it aloud.

You weren't the princess who expected him to be just a knight. No, you were different. You wanted him to be something more. To fight with you, to break the rules with you and fuck it drove him fucking insane.

He was always composed, always unreadable behind that stoic expression. But when the castle lights dimmed he found himself alone in his chambers, his cock in his hand and thoughts of you curling through his mind. That was when the composure crumbled.

You’d always been dangerous to him but tonight… tonight you pushed him too far. You didn’t even know it or maybe you did. Maybe that was what made it worse.

It was the night of your suitor ball.

It had been excruciating to watch. Watch you smile and twirl and entertain a line of unworthy men with soft words and sweet laughs, letting them touch your hands, your waist, pretend they had a chance at owning something they could never deserve or control. Your dress had clung to your figure like sin and every time one of them leaned in to whisper something meant to charm you, Sylus had to remind himself he couldn’t step forward and put an end to it, not without reason. Not without revealing what you did to him.

But your smiles had never reached your eyes. Not the way they did when you looked at him after you’d pushed all the right buttons. Not like the grin you gave when you knew you’d gotten under his skin. That was the worst part, knowing you were doing it on purpose.

After the ball, you dismissed your handmaidens with a single flick of your wrist, claiming you were too tired, too overstimulated and that their voices would only add to the ache in your head. You shut your door with an echoing thud and Sylus took his place outside like he always did. But underneath that armour his muscles were tense, jaw locked, fists tight at his sides. The image of your body in that dress haunted every blink.

Minutes passed, then an hour, maybe more.

He had started to think you’d fallen asleep until your door creaked open again. Candlelight spilled across the hall and there you stood, silhouetted by a golden glow, barefoot but still in your gown. You eyes were sleepy but sharp, lips pursed into a pout that had driven him to madness more times than he could count.

"Sylus.." you breathed, voice quiet "Can you help me untie my dress? The maids laced it too tightly and I’m straining my muscles trying to reach"

He should have said no. Should have turned, fetched a handmaiden, reminded you of boundaries neither of you were supposed to cross. But he didn’t, because when it came to you he never did.

His perfect fucking princess.

So he stepped inside without a word, closing the door behind him like it was second nature, like he’d done it a hundred times before. The air shifted the moment he entered and you moved ahead of him without hesitation, walking toward the centre of the room and turning your back to him with quiet confidence, your hair swept aside exposing the soft nape of your neck. The ties of your gown snaked down your spine begging to be undone.

He swallowed hard, eyes locked on your back and for a moment he didn’t move, he just looked. Looked at you standing there, bare feet on cold stone, breathing soft and trusting him in a way that made his chest ache and his cock twitch with heat he could no longer deny.

His hands lifted slowly, calloused and rough fingers brushing the fine fabric of your gown and the first tie slipped loose between his fingers. You didn’t flinch, nor did you speak. You just stood there, letting him undress you like it meant nothing at all but to him it meant everything.

The silence wrapped around you both, the only sounds the faint drag of fabric and the soft rush of your breathing and the thud of his heartbeat in his ears. His fingers moved with practiced care, undoing each ribbon like it might burn him, but he couldn’t stop. The moment he touched you, the thoughts he’d been holding back all night flooded forward, images of you beneath him, moaning his name, that mouth of yours parting in pleasure instead of sass.

The gown loosened with each tie undone, slowly peeling away from your body, revealing slivers of bare skin that made his self control stretch to its limit. The smooth line of your spine, the curve of your waist. He could see the goosebumps rise along your skin beneath his touch, feel the quiet shiver that ran through you.

You were warm, soft and so incredibly close.

His fingertips lingered just a second longer than they should have at the base of your back before he caught himself, withdrawing his hand with a sharp inhale through his nose. He should’ve stepped away, should’ve walked back to the door and pretended none of this ever happened.

But of course, your mouth had to open.

Words no princess should ever whisper to a knight. Words that should’ve sent him running from your chambers, begging for the gods to strike him down before he did something unforgivable. But this was you and Sylus should know better by now, of course you'd have to push him one last time.

"You can touch, you know.." you murmured, voice acting innocent.  Your head remained facing forward, posture perfect like you weren’t doing anything at all. But he didn’t need to see your face to know you were smirking. That bratty little smirk that meant you knew exactly what kind of chaos you’d just stirred in his chest "It’s right there in front of you... waiting"

And oh, how dangerous you were.

You knew what those words would do to him. You knew what kind of control he fought to keep in your presence, how tightly he held onto his honour, his duty, his fucking sanity. You knew your back was bare, your dress barely clinging to your hips and shoulders, your body glowing in the candlelight, tempting..

He didn’t speak, he couldn’t.

Your words hung between you, tugging at every thread of restraint he had left. He watched the soft line of your shoulders rise and fall with your breathing, watched the gentle sway of your hips as you shifted just a little backwards, it was barely a step but it was deliberate. An invitation he should never accept.

His hand lifted slowly, fingers hovering just above your skin, trembling with hesitation. He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t and yet.. he let his index finger fall. The contact was featherlight, just a single touch running down the nape of your neck, gliding along the dip of your spine. It was soft, too intimate and barely there. You shivered.

He felt it, the subtle twitch in your body, the way your skin pebbled beneath his touch, how your shoulders tensed just slightly before melting again under the weight of his hand. You hadn’t expected it to be so gentle and that made something ache in his chest.

He dragged his fingertip lower, tracing the curve of your back, his gaze drinking in every exposed inch of you, then he saw it. A tiny mole, no bigger than a freckle that rested in the centre of your spine, like a mark the gods had placed there just for him to find. His touch slowed, circling the spot with quiet curiosity. It was small, unimportant to anyone else but now that he’d seen it he knew he’d never forget it. It was yours, it was you and somehow it felt like his.

He pressed his palm more fully against your back, warm and steady, dragging it downward with purpose. His hand was large, nearly spanning your entire waist and as it moved he traced slow, deliberate paths across your skin. He didn’t rush, every motion was practiced  and controlled, each line drawn like he was trying to remember you with his hands.

You didn’t speak and you didn’t move.

He could hear the shift of your breath, see the slight rise in your shoulders when his thumb grazed the edge of your spine again following the delicate line of your body. You leaned into it, not much.. just a subtle arch of your back, barely noticeable but enough to make him dizzy. Enough to make his cock throb, strained and aching beneath the weight of his armour.

His jaw clenched, his throat was dry.

He moved slower still, drawing shapes into your skin. Circles, lines and swirls he didn’t even realize he was making. It was like a ritual, quiet and sacred, a worship he wasn’t meant to offer but he couldn’t stop. The candlelight danced across your skin, casting gold along your shoulders, the curve of your waist.

You were stunning.

And you were letting him touch you like this. Trusting him, letting him see you in a way no one else ever had. His hand stilled, resting low on your back and you still said nothing. You didn’t need to.

Your back remained to him, enjoyin his light touch despite how rough his skin was. The skin of a knight... how he could be so gentle with you? make goosebumps rise on your skin from how delicate he treated you. This was completely different to how rough he was when he spared with the other knights in front of you. It made you so fucking horny.

The silence was unbearable now. It was charged and it felt alive while his palm still rested on your spine not moving, like if he let go everything would snap, it would fall. Then your voice cut through the air. 

"If you want to see more" you murmured, soft and slow "you don’t have to ask"

There was a smile in your voice, he didn’t need to see your face to know your lips were pulled into that bratty little smirk, the one that drove him mad in the courtyard, at dinners, in passing glances when you leaned just a little too close.

He exhaled, slow and tight while his jaw locked, his hand still splayed against the middle of your back. Your words were taunting but they were an invitation.. he could hear the satisfaction in your tone, knew you wanted to hear how it affected him. You liked knowing he was fighting himself.

He could feel it in the way his hand ached to explore lower. In the twitch of his fingers as he imagined slipping your dress the rest of the way down your hips. In the way his cock throbbed painfully against the inside of his pants, pulsing with thoughts he wasn’t allowed to have. Would you be soaked? Just drenched by him only lightly touching you.. 

He didn’t know what possessed him.

Maybe it was the way you said it, that soft and taunting murmur. Maybe it was the way you didn’t flinch beneath his touch, the way you waited for him and invited him or maybe this was always meant to happen.

His hand lifted from your back and for a moment the air between you felt colder, but then his fingers found the delicate edge of your gown, right at your shoulder where the fabric clung. He slipped two fingers beneath the strap and dragged it down, slowly and carefully and he watched as it gave way. Your skin that was newly exposed glowed for him.

You didn’t stop him.

He repeated the motion on the other side, slipping the fabric from your shoulder with the same tenderness. It slid lower, brushing past the gentle slope of your arms and pooling in the crook of your elbows before the rest of it followed, bunching at your waist.

And fuck...if he turned you around he’d see everything.

His eyes lowered, following the silken fabric clinging to your hips, the way your skin disappeared beneath it and his fingers twitched at his sides. His heart and cock was pounding. You were standing in front of him, naked from the waist up and it was the most beautiful thing he had ever been allowed to witness.

His throat was dry and his restraint was thinner than ever. He knew that if you turned around now, if you looked at him, if you spoke his name in that voice he wouldn’t be able to stop himself.

He told himself he wouldn’t go further. He had already crossed too many lines, already let his self control slip through his fingers but he couldn't stop letting his eyes drink in every soft curve now exposed to him, the way the candlelight kissed the bare skin of your back, the swell of your waist, the delicate slope of your arms.

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. His fingertips skimmed along the length of your upper arm, brushing upward until his palm settled on your shoulder and you were oh so warm beneath his touch. You wanted him to touch you.

He dragged his hand down from your shoulder, slipping along your side until his fingers curled lightly at your waist. There was nothing but his restraint stopping him from pushing you down and taking what was his. 

He caressed your waist with one hand, the other gliding back up your arm too slow for your liking. When he reached your shoulder again, he traced along the delicate line of your collarbone that he couldn't see, his touch like a feather. You shivered beneath it and he closed his eyes for a moment, fighting the urge to grip you, to take you.

He shouldn’t be doing this. You were a princess, he was your knight.

This.. whatever this was, whatever you were making it was dangerous. Forbidden and unforgivable and only something he found himself thinking of when he was alone in his chambers... but then you leaned back and your bare skin pressed into his palm. 

That quiet surrender was what undid him most.

His thumb dragged gently along the side of your waist, mapping the curve of you like it was something sacred. His other hand grazed the edge of your back again, not quite yet possessive but claiming in its own quiet way. He wanted to touch every part of you. Wanted to worship the skin he’d only dared imagine late at night, alone and shameful in his chambers.

His hands lingered for one moment too long and then he pulled away.

As if your skin had scalded him, as if touching you was the thing that would finally destroy whatever fragile control he had left. The sudden absence of him made the air feel cold. Your back, once warmed by his palm and his fingertips was now bare to the silence again. You didn’t need to look to know he’d taken a full step back, maybe even two.

Always so restrained. It annoyed you.

You turned around and his breath caught the moment your eyes met his. He looked away instantly, jaw tight, expression unreadable. You had seen the tension though, you had seen the guilt. His gaze had now dropped onto the floor below you, around the room just anywhere but you.

You stood before him now, bare from the waist up, your dress still bunched loosely at your hips. He kept his arms stiff at his sides, fists clenched like it was the only way to keep them from reaching for you again. He wasn’t breathing like he was supposed to anymore, he was breathing like he was on the edge of something.

You tilted your head, your voice soft and sweetly smug as you always were.

"You didn’t even get to the best part"

His head snapped up, eyes wide just to meet that infuriating taunting look on your face that he'd imagine wiping off and changing into one of pleasure. My bratty girl..

You stepped closer and he wanted to step away but there was a slight warning in your eyes. You could see his hesitation but there was no stopping you. That's when you lifted your hands and took his into your own, gentle as you always were with him.

You unfolded his fingers from their rigid state, one by one and feeling the slight tremble in his palms. His breath hitched when your thumbs brushed along his knuckles, guiding them forward and then gods... then you lifted them and placed his hands against your breasts.

The heat in his palms met the warmth of your skin and for a second he was frozen, like his body had short circuited. His fingers twitched instinctively but didn’t squeeze. You could see the way his lips parted, the way his chest rose and fell in tight shallow breaths. He was unravelling and you had him right where you wanted him.

He didn’t move, not at first. His hands were still unsure, like he didn’t know what to do with you but you felt it. The way his fingertips twitched, the way his hands were shaking slightly. Your body leaning into his as you felt him tense beneath your touch and you weren’t waiting for him to make the first move, you were the one moving.

Slowly almost teasingly you began to move. The soft pressure of his hands beneath your fingers felt like heaven and his large hands were big enough to fully cover each breast. It was hard to move him on your own, hard to make it feel good but you managed... massaging your breasts with his rough hands and he felt your nipples harden against his palm. His hands were still frozen, too afraid and too consumed by something he couldn’t understand but you weren’t giving up that easily.

Your head tipped back slightly and you couldn’t help but let out a quiet breathy sigh, fully aware of the way his gaze flickered to your face. Your lips parted as you felt yourself grow warmer, more alive each second drawing you closer to the edge.

His eyes were wide, pupils blown as he stared at your face at the way your lips softened the pleasure running through your body as you used him. The way you looked so lost in the moment, so completely consumed by the pleasure he was providing, even without a word or movement. His hands trembled just slightly, as if he couldn’t help it anymore. His breath quickened too, each exhale heavier than the last.

Finally he moved.

Cautiously, almost like he was afraid that if he moved too fast you’d vanish from him or that the moment would break. But there was no stopping it.  He let his fingers glide more confidently now, along the soft swell of your breasts, rubbing, massaging, testing. The sensation of your skin against his and the weight of you under his hands it made his pulse race, his heart thundering in his chest. Your hands fell to his wrists, holding on. Not to stop him, but to keep him there. 

His mind screamed at him to stop. That this was a line he shouldn’t cross, that once he crossed it, there’d be no going back but every time you moved, every time you breathed, every time your skin met his, the walls he’d built cracked more. When you let out another soft moan, he knew that the moment was slipping through his fingers.

You leaned into him, close enough now that the heat between your bodies was suffocating. Your lips were just inches from his ear and you whispered so quietly, so intimately that it felt like a secret between you two alone.

"If you want more Sylus... take it" The words were a quiet tease and you felt the way he flinched at the sound. You were driving him insane and you were loving every second of it. You always did.

You tilted your head back, letting your hair fall around your shoulders exposing the delicate curve of your neck. You kept your hands steady on his wrists, keeping him in place as your body shifted beneath his touch as he kept massaging, his thumbs ghosting over your nipples knowing exactly how to touch you.

Had he done this with other women? Fuck them all.

The thought made you arch your back, pushing your chest further into his hands making sure he could feel the softness of you, feel the way you reacted to his touch, to his tension. You moaned softly, a teasing sound that you knew would drive him wild. 

His hands twitched against you, his grip tightening involuntarily and for a moment, you almost felt like he was going to lose it right then... but he didn't. His entire body was stiff with restraint and your sexual frustration was only growing. Who else to touch you other than him?

He needed an extra push... and you knew how to push him, how to make him want you with every fibre of his being. Right now, you knew just what to do.

With the lightest touch you guided his hands lower, to the edge of your gown. His fingers brushed against the fabric of your dress, the silk pooling around your waist as you let him feel the coolness of your skin beneath. His fingers faltered for a moment, just barely grazing the edge of the dress but then he stilled.

You pulled his hands down just a little more, making sure he felt the weight of your body against his and with the smallest hint of a smirk on your lips, you moved his hands to the soft delicate fabric of your dress letting your fingers linger on his as he felt the way it clung to your skin. Yur gaze locked, your eyes pleading and your lips parted, breathless. You weren’t begging with words, it was in your eyes just like it always was. The way you tilted your head slightly, to show him the raw need in your expression. It worked every time and it seemed like tonight was no exception.

Who was he to deny his perfect princess?

Slowly, so slowly you felt him move. His hands shifted under your guidance and with a soft, quiet resistance he began to pull the dress down. The fabric of your gown slid over your skin, inch by inch as he helped you free yourself from its tight embrace. Hs fingers trembled as they tugged at the fabric, pulling it down from your hips and over your thighs.

You weren’t wearing anything beneath it. He realised that only when the gown slid down further until it pooled at your feet, leaving you standing before him in nothing but your own skin.

Fuck.

You took a shallow breath feeling the sudden exposure, the vulnerability of being completely naked in front of him but there was no shame in it. Not with Sylus.

For a moment it felt like the world had paused.. like there was nothing else but the two of you standing in this silence, the space between you both aching with what had been building for far too long. His hands didn’t move immediately. his fingers were still pressed against the smooth skin of your back but his eyes were fixed on you now, on every inch of you, the way you stood before him.

You gently laced your fingers through his, intertwining your hands with his and holding him in place. You could feel the heat of his skin beneath your palms, the way his hands were stiff.. even now as you stood naked in front of him, allowing him to know it was okay. That you wanted him, needed him.

Sylus didn’t say a word but you didn’t need him to. You could feel how badly he wanted to touch you, wanted to drag his hands across your body and feel every inch of you. He was fighting it. It was pissing you off.

Then you spoke, your voice low and soft but dripping with every ounce of tease you could muster. It was a challenge, an invitation and not really one that he could refuse.

"Now you have me, Sylus..." You allowed the words to hang in the air, your breath warm on his skin "Bare like a canvas... care to stain me?"

You were a fucking minx.

You could feel his hands tightening around yours, like your words had shocked him to his core, you knew exactly what you were doing. His grip on your hands was firm but the tremble in his fingers betrayed the battle going on inside of him. 

Especially, especially when you pulled your bottom lip between your teeth in a successful smile knowing you had won this time. But the brat tamer he was, the one he learnt to be around you.. he refused your challenge.

"No"

What?

Your breath hitched.

That single word no struck you harder than a shove. It wasn’t just the sound of it, low and restrained, it was the weight behind it. You felt it like a chill across your bare skin, like the ghost of hands that had almost touched, almost dared and then pulled away.  You blinked up at him, lips parting and the smirk you wore slipping just slightly. Not gone, not quite but faltering under the weight of his refusal.

His eyes were dark, not cold and not unfeeling but they were burning and they were burning into you. Burning into your naked body as you stood and stared at him after he denied you, he didn’t move.

Not even when you did your usual whine, the sound  catching in your throat like it always did as you pulled him closer, willing and begging him to touch you. He was still firm though, frustratingly unmoving and you felt a sudden physical wall between your bodies. His jaw was clenched and his eyes dropped to your lips, then lower...but still nothing.

"Sylus.." you whispered, breath shaking. You shifted your weight, letting your chest press up against him and you pouted, lip jutting "You’re being mean...you want to touch me. I know you do"

His gaze flicked down slow and lazily, drinking you in but his mouth curled into an unfamiliar smirk.

"Wanting doesn’t mean I will" he said, his voice maddeningly calm "I think someone's gotten a little too used to getting her way"

Your stomach fluttered. Fucking traitor... because you knew that tone. That patronising, dangerous little tint that meant you weren’t getting what you wanted. Not easily, anyway. You tightened your grip on his hands, trying to press his palms back against your skin but he didn’t budge. Instead he let you try, let you strain until he shook you off completely.

You gasped half scandalised but half turned on, your hand slapping weakly at his chest with your now free hand.

"You’re being unfair!" 

He tilted his head slightly calm as ever, watching your tantrum with amused eyes.

"Brats don’t get rewards" was all he muttered and you narrowed your eyes at him "You think if you pout just right.. I’ll give you everything you ask for?"

"You always do" your pout was getting more prominent with every second passing.

"And that's the problem, princess..." his fingers reached you again, trailing back down over your stomach and stopping just above where you needed him the most "perhaps I've spoilt you too much.. perhaps I need to make you earn it"

A whimper crawled its way out of your throat before you could stop it. It was infuriating. He was infuriating.

There was a moment that passed, both of you staring at each other as his large body loomed over you as he fitted into his usual role of trying to control you, trying to tame you. Just when you thought you had the reigns, he stole them back from you. His finger stayed just below your bellybutton, the tip pressing into you gently as he refused to move it any further. 

So you moved. You stepped back from him slowly, dramatically your hands folding under your breasts to push them up just a little more and your glare could've cut steel but that sweet pout you always held betrayed your look of anger.

"Fine then" you sighed, and he raised an eyebrow at you "If you won't touch me.. I'll do it myself"

"Princess" he warned.

You spun on your heel and walked away.. no, not just walked, you strutted. Your hips swayed with the kind of overplayed effort that dared him to look and of course he looked. You felt his eyes on you. God you were irresistible.

You reached the bed and made a show of climbing onto it, ass full on display for him to see and he found his jaw twitching. You crawled up the centre then turned to face him before throwing yourself down dramatically, back hitting the plush bedding below you. Your thighs spread just enough to draw the eye and he saw it all.

Even from the middle of the room he saw the slick of your folds, the way you were utterly drenched just from him touching your back, your breasts and his words. He hadn't even touched you properly but there was strong evidence of you being so horny for him and he swore he stumbled in his place slightly.

You lay there, knees up and legs slightly open for him to see while your elbows held your upper body up so you could see him, watch him as he watched you. Your head tilted to the side, lips curved in a smirk as you met his gaze again, you were daring him to stop you.

He didn't.

You let your hand trail down your stomach, slow and sensual and it was a perfect performance. Your fingers danced lightly over your navel, down the soft dip of your pelvis.

"Since you’re being such a tease" you murmured, your breath as uneven as his "I guess I’ll just take care of it myself"

His jaw tightened at your words, you saw it. So without further warning you slid your hand lower.U

Your fingers dipped between your thighs and a sharp gasp left your lips, your body twitching slightly at the sudden rush of sensation. You threw your head back with a soft moan, spine arching ever so slightly. You let your fingers dance in the slick of your folds, collecting the essence on your fingertips knowing it was him who caused it.

You started to grow hot, not just under your skin but your whole body felt like it was on fire. You weren't unfamiliar with your own pleasure, you had explored it many time but it was different when the man you wanted the most was stood watching you. Your fingers ghosted your entrance, before they met that sensitive little bud you often rub a little too hard.

But today it felt perfect. Your slick gathered just right and you let out a small moan as you teased your clit gently, rubbing up and down with your fingertip before circling it slowly oh so slowly.

In the heat of your pleasure building up you glanced over to the man who it was all for. You flicked your gaze back toward him, eyes half lidded and breathless, sweat starting to kiss the hollow of your throat and his thoughts were filled of images of his tongue lapping up the sweat you produced before cleaning the slick between your legs.

"Still not gonna help me?" you whimpered, lips trembling "Even when I’m like this? For you?"

He was still rooted to the floor but now his fists were clenched at his sides his breathing ragged. He looked wrecked and you were glowing. So you let your head fall back again, your hips beginning to move in time with your fingers, your free hand gripping the sheets like it was all too much, like you were right on the edge already.

You heard it first, the broken noise that left his lips as you let out another moan, speeding up your fingers on your clit. 

A quiet and breathless "Shit"

You barely had time to catch your breath when you felt the shift in the air. Your fingers stilled between your thighs for a brief moment, chest rising and falling in uneven waves as Sylus finally, finally began to close the distance.

You felt a smirk ghost your lips once more as your eyes closed, continuing to circle that bundle of joy, speeding up and slowing down knowing exactly what would get you to finish. You didn’t dare look at him, not yet. Not with the way your body still trembled from the orgasm he refused to give you himself vut your pulse stuttered when you felt the bed dip.

His hands found you before his voice did. Large, warm palms skimming gently over the curve of your thighs, brushing against your skin like he was mapping it from memory. He dragged his knuckles up the outside of your leg then back down again, too slow. He was touching you, yes but not where you wanted it. Not where you needed it.

"Messy little thing" he murmured, his voice low and just the way you liked it when he let you get your own way "You made such a mess for me.. all by yourself"

You whimpered.. small and pathetic but yet it made him smile.

You opened your eyes and finally looked at him. He was knelt just in between your open legs but still not close enough, his large hands were wrapping around your thighs, rubbing and silently encouraging you to carry on. Still not touching you where you needed but he was here, watching you and talking to you.. that was enough.

"Feels good.." Your voice was barely there but he heard it.

"That what you needed, pretty girl? You needed me to watch you come?" His voice dropped lower, into that gravel soaked whisper that lived in your bones "You just love performing, don't you?"

You gasped as his one of his hand flattened against your belly, fingertips brushing over your twitching skin and he imagined what it would look like to see the outline of his cock buried inside you. 

"Fuck"

"You needed me to see how pretty you are when you fall apart" he continued, fingertips grazing up your sternum "You wanted me to hear those soft little moans, that desperate little cry you make when you’re right there"

You nodded quickly, too breathless to speak and your eyes fluttering closed as his hand ghosted back down to your ribs, over the swell of your breast. You squirmed under him, biting your lip hard enough to sting.

"Show me" he said, thumb brushing beneath your breast now "Touch yourself, sweetheart. Let me see how needy you still are"

"Sylus.." A sharp breath punched out of your lungs.

"Shhh" he crooned, soothing "You’re doing so good for me. So, so good. Don’t stop now, yeah?"

You shuddered at the praise but still he wouldn’t touch where you ached the most. His hands trailed everywhere else,like the gentlest of torments. His fingers explored your stomach, traced the edges of your ribs, brushed the inside of your thighs light a feather ghosting your skin and infuriatingly slow.

"Come on" he whispered, lips brushing against your knee that was still perched up. His voice had darkened now and he was teasing "You want me to help you? Then show me how badly you need it"

You whined, actually whined. Not a whine that he recognised to be your usual one when you wouldn't get your way, no this one sounded different and he couldn't decide which one he preferred. Your back arched against the bed, your fingers circling again and again chasing that edge he’d denied you.

And he watched, he watched with hungry eyes and a half maddened smile. He didn’t stop you, he encouraged you and fuck it was euphoric.

"That’s it" he murmured "Good girl.. keep going"

Your fingers moved faster spurred by his words by the low, primal sound of his voice. He pressed another kiss to your knee then moved along to your other one and repeated the action, still keeping his hands far from where you wanted them most. 

"You gonna cum for me?" he growled, teeth grazing the skin of your inner knee as he refused to move his mouth any closer as he stayed knelt between your legs but with a far distance "You gonna make a mess all over those pretty fingers while I just sit here and watch like a fucking animal?"

"Yes... Yes-fuck yes" 

"You’re so fucking gorgeous like this" he breathed, and he finally allowed you to feel him closer as he moved his body to hover over your own. One of his hands met your breast while his other wandered, rubbing your arm, your waist and his lips ghosted the shell of your ear "So messy, so perfect. All mine"

A strangled moan ripped from your throat. You were shaking, overstimulated and burning up under the weight of his words, his hands, the low heat of his praise. He still hadn’t touched you where it counted and still you were crumbling. Just the sound of his voice, the heat of his breath...

"I..I need—" You tried, voice breaking but he shushed you with a soft hum and a soft kiss to the side of your neck. The first kiss he had ever given you, and you both wished it was placed somewhere else.

"I know, baby. I know you do" His voice was a warm purr, dripping with affection that only made it worse "But you’ve already shown me how good you are at taking care of yourself"

"Sylus.. please.." That earned a soft chuckle, and another kiss on the neck.

"Mhmm not yet. You like being denied, don’t you? Like being told no"

"I don’t!" you whined, brattier now with frustration and how close you were to your release, your hips wriggled under him.

He slid his hand down just barely, fingers brushing the back of your wrist as you kept working yourself, so close to coming undone. So close...

"Go on" he said, low and firm "Show me. You gonna cum just from this? From my voice in your ear and nothing else?"

A soft, broken sob spilled from your lips. Your body jerked.

"Yes" you whimpered for him, one last time "Yes—fuck, I’m...I’m close"

"Good girl" he purred "Let me hear it..."

You shattered underneath him as you finally let go, your body shuddering with pleasure, your fingers working overtime with your release and Sylus’s breath caught in his chest. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, watching you with a mix of admiration and raw hunger, unable to look away as you came undone and your cunt clenched around nothing as if screaming for him to press into you.

He was breathless, his body aching with need but he stayed still, watching the way your body relaxed in the aftermath of your pleasure. He squeezed your breast tenderly and you twitched against him, body slowing down from your orgasm and fuck you felt the fire spread all over your body.

As you finally but shakily recovered from your orgasm beneath him, his breath stuttered. The air between you both was heavy, thick with the weight of his desire for you. His gaze was burning, tracing every delicate movement of your body, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath.

His eyes met yours and you smiled, your voice breaking the silence as you brought your slick covered fingers up between your faces.

"Do you want a taste? A taste of what you can have?"

Sylus froze.

His eyes widened for just a moment but the post orgasm look on your face.. soft, knowing and there was that slight smirk playing at the corner of your lips, it sent a rush of heat straight to his core. Every inch of his body screamed to give in.

His gaze was locked on yours, but it wasn’t the words that did it... it was the way you were looking at him, your fingers glistening, soaked from where you had touched yourself. He could hear the whisper of your breath, and the way it had hitched with every word you spoke.

His free hand that wasn't holding onto your breast trembled as he reached out, his fingers brushing against yours. His heart was hammering in his chest as he took your fingers into his mouth. His lips wrapped around them, the taste of you still fresh on your skin. It was a mix of heat and sweetness, a sensation that made his entire body tense. He sucked on your fingers gently at first, tasting every inch of them and every drop of what you had left behind. The way you looked at him, the way your body was still trembling beneath the touch of his mouth it sent a shockwave of pleasure through him.

God, what the hell was he doing?

His own desire was a fire burning within him but he was losing control. Slowly, he pulled his mouth away from your fingers, a string of saliva (or maybe it was your slick) trailed behind and he still held them in his hand as he gazed at you. His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.

"You’ll be the death of me, princess"

His thumb gently traced over your fingers, the taste of you still lingering on his lips. His eyes flicked up to yours before he pressed your fingers to his lips once again, the heat between you both almost unbearable. Your fingers had barely left his lips when you moved again, closer this time and trapping him with your legs around his waist. He was still fully clothes, and you wanted to change that now before he changed his mind.

"We don't have to go all the way... just let me feel you there. I need to feel you, Sylus" his breath caught at your words.

He was already going too far. Seeing you bare, touching you the way he way he was, the way he watched you come undone on your own fingers, there were several oaths already broken but here you were.. allowing him to keep just a small part of his duty. 

You saw it first, the way his jaw clenched and the muscles in his arms flexing like he was trying to hold himself back from breaking even further. His eyes were darker now, almost pained. His control was slipping through his fingers and you knew it. Knew exactly what you were doing, what you were asking for.

And god, he wanted to give it to you.

"I need you" you whispered again, softer this time, your voice trembling as you guided his hand slowly down the line of your waist "Even if it’s not everything. Just... let me feel what it’s like"

His mind was screaming at him. This wasn’t right, he shouldn’t be doing this. You were royalty, a princess and his charge. But you weren’t looking at him like a princess now. You looked at him like he was the only thing you wanted. Needed, like you’d fall apart if he denied you one more time.

His hand slipped just above the soft heat of you and he swore under his breath, his eyes fluttering shut at the feel of your skin. Your slick danced against his fingertips. He wasn’t even moving, but the intimacy of it.. skin to skin had him trembling. You were soaked, so incredibly soaked and his fingertips twitched at your folds.

Your breath hitched, your back arching ever so slightly as your thighs instinctively pressed together, holding him tightly to you and keeping his hand hostage. You whimpered, forehead pressing into his own and he felt it, he felt how badly your body craved his.

"You feel..." he muttered, the sentence dying on his tongue "You feel like heaven"

Your hips twitched, once then twice, grinding against the solid weight of his hand and Sylus nearly choked on his own breath. Fuck. His whisper ghosted over your skin and you did it again firmer this time, rubbing your soaked folds against the heel of his palm. He hadn’t even moved yet, you were doing all the work. You were using him, shamelessly and he let you.

"Please" you whispered, nuzzling into his neck as if to hide from your own need "Please, Sylus. Let me feel"

How could he say no?

He was quick in moving, stripping himself bare and you watched as the minutes passed. He fought with his clothes, his armour and he groaned in frustration as it fought against him. You helped him, feeling impatient as ever and it all clattered to the floor and then he was naked above you in all his glory and your bottom lip was pulled tightly between your teeth as you gazed down as his cock, red and rock hard.

Sylus.. well he was art. His body sculptured, with scars and small bruises from sparing but they were beautiful. His frame was lean but powerful, every muscle defined with a precision that spoke of control and his skin was painted delicately in the candlelight.

It was unfair how he could be so beautiful, so perfect but not yours.

He leant back down, staring into your eyes before his gaze moved to your perfectly parted lips. His thumb ran over your bottom lip, grazing the teeth marks that you had left and he wondered how so much defiance could spill from these small things. How much they tested his patience, how much they willed and begged him to act, to break. 

Sylus swallowed hard. His cock was throbbing, so hard it hurt and he shook his head, forehead pressing into yours as he cupped your cheek.

"You’re driving me insane" he gritted out and his voice was thick "You don’t even know what you’re doing to me"

You tilted your face up, your lips so close to his that he could taste your breath but neither of you closed that final distance. 

"I know exactly what I’m doing" you told him, and you did.

He gritted his teeth together once more before leaning away from you, but still close enough so you could hold onto him. He reached his hand down, grabbing his angry cock in his hand and he hissed at the contact. He shouldn't ruin you completely, he shouldn't take your innocence, it would only complicate things in the future for you when your future husband finds that you have already given yourself to another man.

The thought of someone else having you made him act quicker and he placed his free hand under your waist before nudging you up slightly and pulling you closer. His cock rubbed through your folds and you both sighed at the feeling, you more than him. To feel him bare, feel the pressure of his girth rub against you in this way, fuck you loved the feeling.

Sylus was losing himself slowly too. Just holding his cock there, resting it on your folds was enough to almost make him cum. Not yet, not before he properly had you.

He leant forwards again and you shut your eyes at the way he moved back and forth, too slow for your liking but it was enough to feel him there. He apparently wasn't going the full way, he would have done so by now, so you  let him continue.

His whole cock was covered in your slick after a few more thrusts and he was slowly losing composure. He ground down harder, the tip of his cock nudging your clit and your arms flew around his neck at the feeling. Fuck this was enough... he didn't need to sink himself inside you, it was enough to rub himself up and down your folds and listen to the sounds you made.

He bit the lobe of your ear and it sent shivers down your spine, he refused to stop moving, refused to pull away as the friction got warmer and warmer and you felt your release building up again with every brush of his tip against your clit. Your hole clenched around nothing, aching to feel him inside but you couldn't tell him to stop.

Sylus felt it, that moment your body gave in again. The tension in your thighs and the way your hips began to shake and rut without rhythm. He was moving faster, his cock practically glued to your folds as he thrusted and thrusted and couldn't bring himself to stop.

Not even when your hands gripped his hair tightly, or when his own gripped your hips and forced you to move up and down the length of his cock. One move differently and he would have sank inside you but this was too good... too good to stop, too good to change. His princess felt so good against him.

"You wanted to feel me?" he growled, breath ragged as he pushed and pushed "Is this good enough for you, princess?"

"Oh gods" you had gasped, head leaning back and further into your royal pillow "Inside.. Sylus please, inside"

He did a particular hard thrust which had you both groaning and you felt it brewing in your stomach, your second orgasm and you looked at him, dazed. Your lips were parted as you chased your breath and his eyes were so intensely set on yours everything stopped for a moment.

You wanted him inside you, you needed him to fill you but he was once again denying you.

"You’re mine to handle, understand? No one else will ever have you like I do" you whimpered at his words, his actions, the way he ignored your pleads and you were oh so close.. so close to that release that he was helping with.

"Y..Yes—yes, fuck, Sylus" 

"That's my girl.. that’s it, rub that sweet little cunt.. on my cock.. let me-let me feel how desperate you are" his breath and his words were hot against your ear and you found yourself burying yourself further into the plush bedding as pleasure filled you once again.

Sylus watched carefully as your stomach fluttered and he felt his cock twitch as you came for the second time that night. You let out a moan that stretched, your whole body twitching with pleasure as he rubbed and thrusted, riding out your high and his still hard cock nudged your clit that began to grow sensitive.

He watched carefully, intensely as your mouth gaped open and your eyes rolled back and it was almost enough to send him over the edge. He collapsed slightly onto you, kissing your collarbone and letting the moment pass. Allowing you both to catch your breath before the realisation of what you had just done sunk in.

Your inner thighs were a mess, covered in your own slick and you felt dirty.. but you loved it. You could barely breathe, feeling his large body covering yours and your sweat sunk into the sheets as you came down from your release, your chest heaving.

"You.." you whispered, eyes closed and he glanced at your face, anticipating your words "I want-I want you to cum"

How, in all of your bliss, you had realised that he hadn't finished was beyond him. He would have fought against your words but his cock was throbbing with need he knew he couldn't ignore it.

He swore under his breath and your eyes opened before locking onto his, wide and begging, your mouth parted in soft, breathy need. You shifted your hips slightly, brushing his length right where you needed him and Sylus growled.

He rutted against you again, harsher this time and he gripped you tightly, forgetting about the delicate way he had held you all night. You felt his desperate thrusts, his desperate groans as he chased his release. You were so fucking sensitive and your body was reeling from the overstimulation but you let him take, take, take...

Until he took too much, and it was with a guttural growl that escaped from deep in his chest that he slid all the way inside you without warning, his length breaching your insides. The stretch was sudden and full, your body gasping around him, clenching tight as you threw your head back with a cry.

Your cry echoed through the room when he filled you completely, raw and thick, deeper than anything you’d ever felt. It was a stretch that bordered on unbearable, your first time making your body fight the burn of him but Sylus... he wasn’t moving, as if he realised what he had done.

Your eyes wide as your body tried to stretch around him, accommodate the sheer size of him. He stilled, every muscle in his body tight with restraint, forehead pressed against yours, both of you frozen in that unbearable moment of joining.

"I’m sorry" he rasped, barely above a whisper "Fuck I’m so sorry, sweetheart.. I... Gods, you’re tight. I shouldn’t-I shouldn’t have.."

His voice cracked, like it hurt to speak, like it hurt more to be inside you and not move. You had begged him to be inside you and he had denied, but now he had given you no warning, no preparation and he was nestled deep inside and despite the pain, you felt so full.

He was deep. Too deep. The kind of stretch that burned and throbbed and made tears well in your lashes from the pressure of it but still you clung to him, because this was what you wanted.

You had no more orgasms to share for the night but it would feel even better to feel him thrust inside you as he chased his own release. The thought made you whimper, tightening around him involuntarily and he cursed again, low and sharp like he’d been burned.

"Mo..Move" you gripped his shoulders, looking for any sort of stability to make the pain flutter away.

"I’ll stop" he breathed, feeling an immense amount of guilt from taking you this way when he had restrained all night "Tell me to stop, and I’ll—"

"No" you whispered, voice breaking and head shaking desperately "Please don’t"

That single plea shattered him.

He groaned, forehead slipping to your shoulder and his fingers moved to dig into your hips like he was anchoring himself there. He moved slowly, so slowly, just a roll of his hips backwards which was barely anything and you cried out, the sound soft and needy, your nails clawing into his shoulders like it was the only way to stay grounded.

"Shit, princess" he choked "You feel... fuck-you feel like everything I’ve ever wanted"

His hands were shaking where they held you. He was trying to be careful despite his release right there.. he was trying not to lose himself to the hunger clawing under his skin but the more you pulsed around him, the more your soft moans pushed past your lips, the more impossible it became.

"Sylus-"

"I’m hurting you, aren’t I?" he whispered, voice hoarse and still filled of guilt "You’re so small...fuck, I shouldn’t have-"

"You’re not" you breathed and reached up to cup his jaw "You’re not hurting me. You feel perfect, Sylus"

And it was the truth. Despite the dull pain that throbbed inside you he still felt perfect inside you and it was everything you dreamt of and more. Him here, above you and inside you, you couldn't wish for anything more. He was about to ruin you for your future husband and you'd deal with the consequences when the time came.

"You are perfect" he said as a strangled groan left his throat "My perfect, bratty princess. This cunt.. this fucking body it was made for me. You were made for me"

He knew if he didn't move now, he'd cum before he could and he knew that this would never happen again. So he moved, slowly and carefully he dragged his cock out to the tip before pushing back inside with a groan. You whimpered beneath him again, his grip on you tightening and his hips rolling into you.

Each thrust was slow, controlled, yet thick with need and the more you moaned and whimpered, the more your legs trembled, the more you whispered his name the more his control frayed. A single stray tear fell from your eye and he wiped it away, whispering that he'd be quick but he didn't know that the tear was from pure pleasure and nothing from pain.

You were so drunk on his cock you couldn't feel anything but him.

"Fuck.."

"You're so spent but still.. giving to me" his mouth was by your ear again, his thrusts picking up pace and the sound of his hips hitting yours echoed through the room "Letting me take you like this.. crying around my cock like it’s the only thing you need. No man could ever deserve you, princess"

You whined at that, tightening around him while your arms clung around his neck, face buried into his shoulder. He held you like he’d never let go, panting hard against your skin, sweat drenched and trembling. He was seconds away, just seconds away from letting go.

You could barely speak, barely breathe, fingers clutching at him like he was the only thing holding you to the world. His pace was relentless now. Needy, hungry, almost furious from how close his release was. Every thrust was a claim, every snap of his hips a promise that no other man would ever get to see you like this. Touch you like this.

Even if it wasn't true, he could still pretend.

He angled his hips and suddenly you were seeing stars.

"Oh—Sylus!"

His rhythm stuttered at your voice and he groaned, like hearing his name fall from your lips was the final nail in the coffin. He cursed violently, lost in the feel of you clenching around him and with a final, brutal thrust he buried himself deep and came. Hot and thick, twitching inside you as he groaned your name.

His body shook as he pressed you hard against the bed, holding you through the aftershocks, breathing ragged and heavy. You had let him use you to find his own pleasure and fuck he was so addicted to you that this moment right here would ruin him forever.

He hadn’t moved, he couldn’t. Not with how perfectly your body still cradled him, wrapped tight and warm around him even after you'd both come undone. His arms trembled where they were now braced beside your head, his chest brushing yours with each uneven breath.

And still, his eyes were locked lower.

Where you were still connected. Where his cock remained buried deep inside you, twitching every now and then from the aftershocks, from the memory of how your walls had squeezed around him, despite not orgasming alongside him. The memory of you milking him like your body knew he was made for you. His seed was already leaking out, slicking your thighs and his own, glistening in the candlelight.

A mess. His mess.

His jaw clenched as something raw and possessive roared tightly in his gut. He slid his hand down your stomach, fingers tracing the swell of your lower belly like he was trying to feel how deeply he’d reached, how much of him he’d given you.

You’re mine now, he wanted to say again but it was already written all over your body.

You stirred beneath him, a small sigh spilling from your lips as your arms slipped down onto the bed from his shoulders. Your thighs shifted, hips twitching at the overstimulation of him still inside but you didn’t ask him to pull away. 

"You’re staring" you murmured, voice laced with sleep and satisfaction.

"Can’t help it" His throat was dry, his voice rough. You gave a quiet hum, your fingers moving to gently brush the nape of his neck.

"Still think I’m too much trouble?"

He let out a low, wrecked laugh at your question. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he leaned in close, his forehead pressing to yours.

"You’ll always be trouble" he said "but I'd never change that"

And he meant it, every word. There was no going back from this.

He shifted slightly and you whimpered at the movement. His cock still nestled deep, still twitching, like he couldn’t bear to leave your warmth just yet. He kissed your temple, then your cheek but still avoided those pretty lips. Each press of his mouth more tender than the last, like he was trying to make up for how hard he'd taken you, for how desperate he'd become.

"Look at what you do to me.." His voice broke on the words, hand sliding down to cradle your hip, fingers splaying wide to hold you in place as he gave the faintest, lazy thrust, just enough to feel you clench again.

You shivered, still sensitive and still twitching and fuck he loved it.

He shouldn’t still be moving. Not when you were both spent, drenched in sweat and breathing like you'd run across the entire kingdom but he couldn’t stop himself. Not with how warm and wet and soft you felt around him.

His cock, soft as ever now, slipped deeper as he rolled his hips once more.. slow and lazy, just enough to make you gasp and cling tighter to his arms.

"Still so perfect" he murmured against your ear, the heat of his breath making you shiver "You’re holding onto me like you don’t want to let go"

Your hands were in his hair, fingertips lazily toying with the strands. Your eyes fluttered closed, lips parted as your thighs tightened slightly around his waist, instinctively pulling him closer, keeping him buried.

"Don’t want to" you whispered in return, voice dazed "Feels too good like this"

He exhaled through his nose, jaw clenched at the way your words crawled down his spine. It was shameless, shameless how much you affected him.

"Still greedy" his voice was low and rough but filled with nothing but affection "Still bratty, even now"

You giggled softly and fuck, he loved that sound. Loved the way you looked beneath him, skin flushed, hair wild, glowing from the inside out. 

"Maybe you should keep ruining me then" you said softly, playfully. Not bratty playfully, it was genuine and he couldn't get enough of it "until I forget anyone else ever existed"

You felt his breath slow and steady, brushing the side of your neck and then his voice once more.

"You can give me one more... can’t you?" Hadn't you given him enough?

You shook your head, closing your eyes and leaning back into the soft pillows beneath you and you let a soft, sleepy whimper leave your lips, tightening your hold on him.

"I'm tired.."

You felt him smirk against your shoulder. His hand slid up your side, large and calloused and slow, grazing your sensitive skin.

"Stubborn as ever" he muttered. His hips shifted, only slightly and the stretch of him inside you was enough to make your toes curl. You whined weakly, breath catching but your hips tilted without you meaning to, like your body wanted to obey him even if your mind was too tired to try "You’ll give it to me.. you always do"

"Sylus.." you breathed, barely a sound. His palm slid down your belly and his lips kissed your neck once more.

"Let me have it" he said "Just one more. You can do that for me, princess"

He began to move, gentle thrusts, more intimate than before. Not about frenzy now but about drawing every last drop of pleasure from you, about owning your body even in the softest moments. His hand dipped lower, brushing where you were joined and onto your clit. You whimpered, your walls fluttering weakly around him and he felt it, knew your body was already giving in even if your words hadn’t.

"That’s it" he breathed against you "Just one more.. one more for me"

His fingers pressed more firmly, circling slow perfect patterns as his thrusts stayed deep and dragging. You arched against him, helpless and sensitive, every inch of your skin buzzing with overstimulation.

"Come on, sweet girl" he had coaxed, voice melting into a quiet groan "Let me feel you finish again. My perfect princess..."

With his voice in your ear and his body moving inside yours, there was no point fighting. Your body locked up again, pleasure crashing through you as you came for the third time, your cry swallowed into the sheets. Sylus held you tighter, hips rocking you through it as you shook in his arms, whining his name like a song.

He didn’t stop until you were trembling and limp, gasping for breath and boneless all over again, only then did he still.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, though you couldn’t explain why.. maybe it was just the sheer overwhelming sensation of everything he’d taken you through, his touch was both a comfort and a reminder that you were completely his. 

He felt the tremor in your body before you could even let it show. His hand slid over your skin like he was memorizing every curve, every inch of you. His thumb brushed under your eye, wiping away the wetness you hadn’t even known had fallen.

Sylus slowly began to pull away from you, his movements careful as he reached to gently pull out but as he shifted to pull away and clean you up, he felt the familiar comforting pressure of your pull. You didn’t want that. You didn’t want him to leave you just yet.

"No..." you whispered, voice shaky from the aftershocks of your pleasure.

His body froze for a moment and he stared down at you, brows furrowed. His chest was still rising and falling rapidly, his pulse hammering in his ears. He knew this was dangerous, knew he should pull away as he had broken enough boundaries already. But there you were, looking up at him with your eyes wide and needy, asking him to stay.

"Princess" he murmured. His hands hovered near your hips, unsure "yOu’ve had enough. I need to clean you up...you don’t want-"

"I want you to stay" You cut him off, your fingers gripping his wrist, pulling his hand back to your body, holding him there like you didn’t want him to leave "I feel good... feel full. Don’t go yet, Sylus. Please"

He cursed softly under his breath. He had really done it now.

"You really want me to stay?"

"Yes... just a little longer"

Who was he to deny your needy whimper, your pleading eyes and your clenching cunt? still wrapped so tightly around him, he also didn't want this moment to end. His eyes were half lidded, his chest rising and falling gently as he watched you, as though taking in every inch of you. He couldn’t find the words to say, so he simply stared at you. You felt his breath warm against your cheek as you held his gaze. 

Your lips parted slightly, a small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. The exhaustion was heavy on you now but there was still something in you.. a flicker of need, a need for something that hadn't been done. You tilted your head towards him, the tiredness fighting against you.

Slowly, your lips found his. You held them there for a moment, not moving just pressing your lips against his as you took a deep breath in through your nose. He had fucked you into the bed without even touching your lips and the thought of him being the first to be inside you and now to kiss you, there was no denying your body and soul belonged to him.

He pulled away, gazing at how your lips gained their colour again and were free from the pressure of his own before he was kissing you again with a deep breath and you sighed happily underneath him.

He pressed deeper and you had no idea what you were doing. It was clear to him that you had never kissed before, knowing that none of those suitors even came close to having you like this, so he gave you the control, let you experiment and practice. He let you explore his mouth, let you make mistakes, because there was something undeniably intoxicating about how raw and real it felt. As you moved your lips against him, your bodies shifted and you both landed on your sides but this was much easier for you to reach as you wrapped your arms around his neck and held him to your body. 

You mourned the loss of his cock as it slipped out of you but worshipped his lips as a distraction. Sylus groaned into your mouth as your lips worked against his, your hands pulling him closer, feeling him pressed against you with a desperation that matched your own. 

The kiss was messy, slick, with the heat of your mouths colliding, lips moving desperately against each other. Saliva mixed, coating your lips, dripping down your chin but neither of you cared. It was sloppy, too much but just right. He tugged at your hair, pulling you closer, his tongue pushing past your lips, swirling and tasting you. There was nothing graceful about it, just the frantic need for each other.

Sylus’ hands gripped your waist tightly, as though he needed to anchor himself, his fingers digging into your skin as he tried to fight the urge to take over but fuck it was hot how you kissed him so freely .Every time you shifted, he could feel your inexperience but it only fuelled him.

It was when your smaller mouth took his tongue in that you really made him lose his grip on control. Your lips curled around the muscle, sucking it into your mouth and you weren't gentle about it, you were hungry and so demanding. You sucked him into your mouth, pulling on his tongue as if you couldn't get enough, bobbing your head once then twice and savouring the way he groaned at the pressure of your lips around him.

Sylus groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest. His hand slid to the back of your head, holding you in place as he felt your mouth envelop him, your tongue working over his with a kind of neediness that drove him insane. The way you moved, how you sucked on his tongue, it was maddening. It was unpractised and nothing that screamed of experience but he...he lost himself in the feeling of it.

He pulled away for a moment, eyes dark with lust but his voice was shaky.

"Fuck, that’s...god, that’s so fucking hot" His gaze was wild and his chest heaving as he watched you, his perfect fucking princess devour him.

You didn’t let him pull away for long. Not when you felt that hunger in your bones, not when you craved more of him, more of his lips, his touch. You pulled him back, this time with a force that made him groan again and you kissed him harder. He was lost in the feeling of you, the heat of your body against his, the mess of your kiss like you needed him, like you needed this.

And you didn't stop, not until you could hear the ragged way his breath was coming, how he was almost at his breaking point once again. You felt him twitch against your tongue, heard the way he groaned louder when you gently pulled him deeper, taking him in further.

Finally, when he thought he couldn’t take much more, he pulled you away. This time, it was with a tremble that let you know just how deep you had gotten under his skin.

────────

The morning light had slipped past your heavy curtains and you were awake before your handmaidens arrived. Perhaps it was good that you did... you could control whatever situation had happened last night before they arrived and caught you tangled up with a man that was not your future husband. You stirred slowly, the remnants of sleep still clinging to your lashes, your body heavy with the kind of ache that only came from him. 

You reached out lazily, fingers seeking warmth in the dip beside you expecting the brush of his skin, his hand on your waist pulling you back in but there was nothing. Just a cool sheet that was already void of his warmth.

Your brows knit faintly, confusion barely nudging at your mind. You rolled onto your back instead, the light catching the curve of your bare collarbone, your hair spilling across the pillow in a mess he’d made last night.

Clearly he had taken the first initiative, as always keeping you in place and in check.

Knowing you wouldn't have to worry about being caught you let yourself indulge for a moment. Your hand lifted slowly and your soft fingertips ghosted over your inner knee, where his lips had touched. Your fingers trailed further, up your ribs where his hands had held you too tight. Over your breasts, where his fingers had gripped and pulled. Then to your lips, still kiss bitten and swollen. You exhaled a shaky little laugh, one that trembled with sweetness and disbelief.

You had never known you could feel like this, never known someone could make you feel like this.

"Gods, Sylus..." you whispered, voice breathy with adoration, almost like you expected him to answer "What did you do to me?"

You sat up slowly, the sheet slipping down your bare chest but you didn’t reach for a robe just yet. You just sat there for a moment, fingertips still brushing your lips as you replayed the night. His voice, his weight, his breath against your ear. Him.

You dressed slowly, still smiling. The soreness in your legs made you wince, but it only added to the heat blooming in your chest. You bathed in the excitement of seeing him again. Of teasing him like you always did, willing him to put you in your place. Maybe you'd kiss him in secret again, in the gardens as you walked around to "clear your head". You wondered if he'd touch you again the way he did last night...

You were glowing as you made your way through the palace halls, hair still a little messy, steps light. The guards bowed, the servants offered polite nods but you barely noticed. You were looking for him.

You checked the gardens first. The spot beneath the tall oak tree where Sylus often stood guard, posture straight, hands behind his back. He wasn't there, only the breeze. 

You peeked into the sparring courtyard next. The sound of steel was always a constant as trainings never stopped, not even for bad weather or royal dinners. But today, the air was still. Not even the usual grunts and barks of practice.

You slowed your steps when you passed the kitchens, hoping and knowing that Sylus would be in the side corridor that led toward the servant quarters. He was always patrolling the quiet edges, watching without being seen.

But again, there was nothing.

He wasn’t at the stables, and his horse was gone.

Your stomach twisted as you stood in the empty stable, your fingers brushing over the reins he always used. They were slightly worn, frayed at the ends and you held them for a moment, like they might give you an answer. They didn’t.

The palace felt too quiet.

Panic hadn’t quite bloomed yet, but the ache in your chest was growing sharper with every hallway you passed, every turn that didn’t reveal his tall frame leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes watching you like he always did.

Eventually, you ended up where you hadn’t wanted to go yet, the throne room.

Your father was seated in quiet conversation with one of his stewards. Calm as always, in the way only rulers were taught to be. You stepped into the room with less grace than usual, panic twisting in your gut as the hem of your robe swishing against your ankles. 

"Father" you said, voice tight but trying to stay steady. He looked up at once, a softness in his expression that only came out when he saw you upset.

"Sweetheart. What troubles you?" His voice was calm and reassuring, everything you needed in this moment but there was a sea of concern. Your hands were trembling, so you clenched them behind your back.

"Where’s Sylus?" The question fell from your lips before you could stop it, an urgency to your tone that you hadn't planned. His brow furrowed slightly in confusion, blinking at you once, then twice before his gaze shifted to the steward beside him and the two exchanged a brief, puzzled glance.

"I thought he’d be with you"

"Well, he’s not, clearly" you said quickly, knowing that your tone of voice would have Sylus' sharp eyes on you as a warning "I’ve checked the grounds, the courtyard, even the stables. He’s not anywhere.. did you send him somewhere?"

Your father hesitated, a long pause stretching between you, his quill hovering in mid air as if it could help him find the right answer. He uttered your name gently and you swallowed nervously.

"Sweetheart.." he began and your heart clenched slightly "No, I didn't. He came to me early this morning... asked to be relieved of his duties. Said he’d fulfilled what was asked of him, I assumed that he would spend the rest of his day with you"

You stared at him, the world suddenly feeling like it was spinning far too fast. Your breath caught in your throat and a strange, dizzying silence filled your ears.

"What?" you asked, your was voice small and uncertain "No, that’s... he didn’t tell me that"

"He said he did. That you spoke last night and that you understood" Your father’s expression shifted, the pity in his eyes crushing you more than you could have anticipated.

You took a step back, stunned.

"He said he told me?" the words felt foreign as they fell from your lips.

"Yes" the king said gently "That you were both in agreement. He assured me it wasn’t a sudden decision, that you knew"

But you didn’t.

You remembered every second of last night.. every sigh, every kiss, the way his hands worshipped you like you were sacred. You remembered the soft way he whispered your name, the tremble in his voice when he said you’re mine. You remembered all of it but he never said goodbye.

He never even hinted. Did he? You shook your head slowly, trying to breathe.

Your hands fell to your sides, the trembling no longer something you could hide. It wasn’t just that you hadn’t been prepared, it was that he hadn't prepared you at all.  There had been no warning, no promise, nothing. Just the feeling of him pressing his lips to yours, of him moving inside you like he belonged there, inside your heart.

"He didn’t tell me.." you said, barely a whisper. Your father stood, concern in his eyes now.

"My darling, are you sure?"  his voice carried the weight of a father’s love, but it wasn’t enough.

"I would've remembered!" you said firmly, suddenly. 

The silence that followed was heavy, you could feel it settle in your lungs. The weight of it pressed on your chest, suffocating you. You couldn’t understand... Sylus had been so tender, so consumed with you but now nothing remained. He had just.. left?

Why would he leave without a word? 

"I need to go" you whispered, the floor suddenly feeling too open.

Without waiting for a reply you turned on your heel, your mind racing faster than your body could keep up. Your feet carried you swiftly as you backed out of the room, unable to face your father’s worried gaze any longer.

This time you didn’t stop when the ache reached your knees. You didn’t stop when the tears welled in your eyes. You only stopped when you reached your chambers and the door closed behind you, muffling the weight of a truth you hadn’t been ready for.

He left, and he had let you believe that he wouldn't.

That night your hand curled into a fist by the window, your nails digging into your skin as if that might ease the tension coiling in your chest. You hated feeling like this. You hated how restless you had become in the silence, how empty the room felt without him. You’d always prided yourself on getting your way, on knowing how to make him cave, how to make him break under your teasing.

But this? This was different. 

Around this time last night he was claiming you as his, smothering you in love and obsession, staining you and ruining you like you had wanted him to.

Sylus hadn’t been here all morning. He hadn’t said goodbye, hadn’t even warned you that he’d be leaving and that ache in your chest... it wasn’t the ache that you usually got from the games you played, from the ways you’d tried to rile him up. No, this was deeper and colder, and it gnawed at you making you feel small and exposed.

You let out a frustrated sigh, pacing to the edge of the bed, your fingers brushing the sheets where you had shared last night. The sheets still held the faintest trace of his scent but he was gone. You could almost feel him there, the warmth of his body, the quiet strength of his presence but he wasn’t here. Not anymore.

You should be angry, you should be frustrated but instead, you just felt... lost. You missed the way he’d handled you, the way he could always read you, always keep you in check without a word and now, there was no one to remind you of your place. 

Had you really pushed him too far this time? The thought unsettled you in a way you weren’t used to.

You were the one who usually did the breaking, who teased and challenged him at every turn but now, you were the one left broken, wondering where he had gone, wondering why he hadn’t said goodbye.

[acphengene]

String of fate

₊ ⁺ pairing: Niki x reader

₊ ⁺ word count: 3.2k

₊ ⁺ genre: soulmate au, fluff, angst, brotherly love

₊ ⁺ note: it’s fucking finally here. i like them, they’re cute. also can you tell i’m Jayki biased?

₊ ⁺ Jake ₊ ⁺ Jungwon ₊ ⁺ Jay ₊ ⁺ Sunoo ₊ ⁺ Heeseung ₊ ⁺ Niki ₊ ⁺ Sunghoon ₊ ⁺ Masterlist

Niki was a dancer first, and a person second. Anyone who knew him, knew that. He moved like water and learned choreo faster than any other dancer under Hybe.

But he was also a brother, a good friend, and most importantly a hopeless romantic.

You wouldn’t know it by looking at him, but he was. The little red string that was wrapped on his left pinky, was the one thing that would one day give him his fairytale ending.

He had been so excited about it since he woke up with it on his thirteenth birthday. He just never really talked that much about it.

The thread was tight and always stretched towards the horizon, a clear indication that you were nowhere near him. But he had always wondered just how he would find you.

Everything became a little easier when he debuted. Being in Enhypen meant a lot of travels and tours, and different ways for him to figure out just where you were.

Niki made sure that the string was nearly tucked away in his pocket whenever it started to get loose, a little scared that it might end up being flossed or even break if it came into contact with the floor too much.

Logically he knew that wasn't possible, but still he liked to know he kept it safe, just in case. Taking care of that bond that connected the two of you, couldn’t be the worst thing.

To his older brothers Niki had a very casual outlook on the soulmate bonds, an attitude that said: “it happens when it happens”. But when he was the last one standing without a soulmate by his side, he became a little more desperate than he had previously been.

“Can’t we just take a trip, you know to somewhere we haven’t been before?” He asked Jay that we’re currently testing out a new guitar.

His hyung smiled at him. “What happens to my cool and collected baby bro?”

Niki sighed. “He died” and sent the older one a teasing smile.

“You’re the one who has always said that it happens when it happens. And look at all of us, you weren’t wrong. It’s your turn to be patient now.”

He avoided Jay’s eye contact, as he kept playing the same note on a keyboard that stood in the room before him.

“Easy for you to say with G on your arm every day” Niki answered as he rolled his eyes.

Jay just chucked. “Come, let’s go make some curry and distract that mind of yours”

He followed along, but not before giving the thread a pull, a little reminder that he was thinking of you.

You loved the little red string, and red had quickly become your favorite color. What you didn’t understand was your soulmate's inability to stand still.

Almost every hour of every day, he was jumping around like a flea. The string was constantly bouncing or moving from side to side, often in the same movements over and over again.

It had left you wondering just what he was up to each and every day. You knew your own moved around a lot too, dancing would do that. But did he even notice how much he moved himself?

Of course ballet was much slower movements and much more elegant than whatever he was doing.

But you guessed whatever he was up to made him happy, he had after all been doing it since the very first day, and happiness was important.

Every now and then you would feel a tug on the string, and you knew he was thinking of you. It always warms your heart.

Another day, another tour stop. Niki was excited, the string had never been as loose as when he excited the airplane.

If it hadn't been for Sunghoons birthday gift last year he would have his arms filled with the red string at that moment. Hell he might even end up tripping over it.

His soulmate-less brother had always been the best at giving both advice and gifts that were soulmate related, and that year Niki had gotten a little compas looking thing that when attached to the string, railed it into it's compartment and kept it safe. It was one of the most precious gifts he had ever gotten.

“You think she’s here?” He asked his older brothers with hope in his eyes. Some shrugged, others nodded, but Heeseung just pulled him down to him and wrapped his arm around his shoulder. “Let’s find out shall we?”

It was still early in the morning, and he was just lounging around until it made sense for them to do their first sound check and overall runthrough of the choreo.

And as the clock struck ten, the string started to move. A tiny bit to the left, then to the right. You were so close now that he for the first time could see how you were moving through the city. Unlike the very subtle movements of your hand movements he had gotten used to, this looked different, it even felt different.

It distracted him. He forgot everything from lyrics to moves as the hours progressed, earning him a lot of teasing comments from his members.

At some point he buried his head in his hands and groaned. “I don’t know if I can do this guys” he said with an apologetic look.

Sunoo laughed. “You obviously can’t, but I’m surprised you have lasted this long”

Niki smiled. “Yeah, me too”

“Just go,” Jungwon said with a smile. “Find her and bring her to the hotel for dinner”

The youngest nodded enthusiastically, before he all but ran off stage. He didn’t make it far before he heard someone call after him.

“I’m not letting you roam a new city all by yourself” Jay said with a smile before grabbing Nikis shoulders and giving them a loving rub.

The two of them got one of their managers to drive them until the string led them through small passages in the city. Then they took the rest of the journey on foot.

The city in and of itself was beautiful, with old cathedrals, brick sidewalks and cozy cafes on almost every corner, and a quick coffee run later the two had returned to their adventure.

Niki was quiet, more than he usually was, but who could blame him? His palms were sweaty and his eyes never left that red string that twisted around corners. He wondered if you had walked the same streets at some point.

Jay looked at his youngest brother with admiration, as he tried to let him just be, to live this moment.

The string took them to an open plaza in the middle of the city, and before them laid one of the few buildings in the world that were still home to a royal ballet. And the string went straight through its doors.

“Shit…” Jay said under his breath.

“Fuck” Niki ecchoed.

Getting to the building was one thing, the easiest step on their path it seemed. But getting in there, behind the scenes? That would be as close to impossible.

On any given day you would’ve paid more attention to your end of the string. But today wasn’t any normal day, no you were on the night of your career. Prima ballerina for this years ‘Swan Lake’ was your new title.

Everything had led up to this, this was what you had worked for your entire life, what you had ruined your muscles and feet for, and nothing, not even the new movements of your string, could take your eyes off that price.

The day was a constant stress of rehearsals, fittings, ice baths and fittings. Your heart was beating so hard that you could feel the pulse in your entire body.

When you finally sat down in the hair and make up you gave the string a little pull. It was as tight as it had always been, and you couldn’t help that little ping of hurt that he, whoever he was, wasn’t there to see this moment and to be your loudest cheerleader in the crowd.

Niki felt defeated, normally the little tug would make it all better, but how could he get into a show that had been sold out for months?

Jay had managed to score tickets to every performance that night except one, and as absolutely amazing as the two performances had been that night, you hadn’t been there.

“I’m so sorry” Jay said with an apologetic smile as he watched Niki once again moved his last piece of ravioli around on his plate as he was lost in thought.

He only shrugged. “It is what it is” he gave him a halfhearted smile. “At least these performances have given me a few ideas for some new choreography?” It sounded more like a question than anything else.

“Yeah, that is kind of a silver lining”

He lowered his head and kept it down, and all Jay could do was sit idly by as he watched his youngest break down in front of him.

It was a rare sight to see Niki cry, he put on a hard facade, something he had done these last few years, a trauma response they had all figured.

He moved to the booth and pulled him into a tight hug. “I know,” he whispered. And that little reassurance opened the floodgates.

Niki was grateful they were hidden away from all eyes in the back of the restaurant. That no one was near to witness this, the fact that Jay saw him like this was embarrassing enough.

He pulled away with an apology as he dried his eyes.

“Don’t ever apologize to me for having feelings that are so big you need to express them. I will forever be a safe place for you to do that”

Niki saw how sincere he was and he only nodded as yet another tear escaped his left eye.

A commotion in the restaurant was the next thing the pair heard, and suddenly their manager came rushing towards them.

“I got them!” He screamed. “I got them but we need to go now! It starts in 5 minutes!”

Fuck. This was it. And he had never in his entire life, moved faster than he did just then.

He moved up the stairs with a fast pace, rushing towards the top floor where his seat was located. He didn’t wait to figure out if the others could keep up, that didn’t matter. You were the only thing on his mind.

This had to be it, you had to be a part of this production, there was no other way. He had prepared himself to stand outside in the snow all night if that was what it took. But this did seem like a better alternative.

He wondered what your role was, were you someone behind the scenes, or were you like him, a performer?

The balcony had a perfect view of the entire stage, and when the string led straight behind the curtain, he knew this was it.

His legs were bouncing, he was fidgeting with every ring on his fingers. He didn’t care that his baggy jeans or his hoodie made him stand out like a sore thumb between the fancy gowns and suits.

Jay laid a hand on his thigh. “Breathe” and he tried, but it was as if all of the oxygen had left the room.

“She’s here hyung, she’s right here. I just know she is”

“And so are we”

Their eyes met. “Is this really happening?” He asked.

Jay smiled. “Yeah, it really is”

“You’re sure this isn’t a dream?” He asked as he once again looked to the red curtains.

Jay laughed. “Dreams are my mark, not yours. So yeah I’m pretty sure”

The smile that painted his lips were from pure happiness, and he looked like a tiny sun, radiating in this somewhat dark room.

And just then the lights flickered three times, an indication that the show was about to begin.

All Niki could do now was hope that he wouldn’t pass out.

As the curtains rose a calmness came over you, the world around you disappeared, and your feet started to move on their own accord as they always had.

You were home now, and you wondered if you would ever be more happy than you were in that exact moment.

He saw you, and you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. There was no one in this world that could tear his eyes from you.

He knew in his heart he looked like a star struck idiot, but he couldn’t care less.

Your elegance was unmatched and the way you moved proved to him that the universe had done him a favor. You were the other half of his soul, one he had lost before he even came into this world, the one thing he had searched for his entire life, the one person he would search for in every life after this one.

A dancer, of course you were, he thought. Who else would be able to understand his love for being on stage, other than one who shared that passion?

He knew it was opening night for this year's season which meant that he experienced this moment with you in real time. He was so proud despite not even knowing your name yet.

Before he knew it the curtains once again closed and the show was officially over. The cast stepped out when they opened once again and your smile was so big as you looked at your partner it literally took his breath away, it was as if he froze in time.

As you bowed he once again gained consciousness and he clapped and cheered louder than anyone there. He reached out and pulled on that string as hard as he could.

He watched as you took a small stumble, he watched as you reached out to grab it, and as you followed it, it let your eyes straight to him.

God he was beautiful, dressed in black and grey, messy hair and tear stained cheeks, but he didn’t seem to mind. The two of you watched each other for a second, and then you both watched as the string that connected you, transformed from crimson red to the most dazzeling gold.

He was still clapping when your tears started rolling down your cheeks and you once again took a bow, deeper this time, more grateful.

Niki had sent Jay back to the hotel after he had been approached by one of the security guard of the theater. Telling him that you would be out as soon as possible.

He had decided to go outside to hopefully calm his blazing hot cheek.

It was hard for him to wrap his head around the fact that he had actually found you. That he had listened to himself and it had been worth it.

The snow had started again and the darkness that surrounded it was only lit up by the old streetlights. He stood there, looking over the plaza as he wondered just what he wanted to say to you.

He didn’t have Jake’s mark, but he wanted it to be something meaningful, something you could be proud of.

Behind him he heard a door close and he turned in one smooth movement, as if quick turns on his heels were second nature to him. Who was he? You couldn’t help but wonder.

You stood on the top of the stairs looking down on him. Looking at that gold string, so you hadn’t imagined it.

Niki took a step forward and almost instinctively reached out for you.

He was calm, and you most definitely weren’t. You made a small jump and let out a small scream before you rushed down the steps to him.

He laughed, loudly, and the sound bounced around on the buildings, echoing it back to the two of you as if it was your own little song.

As you were almost by the foot of the stairs he opened his arms to you, and you leaped the last few steps. Throwing yourself into his arms.

He caught you, as he always would, and held you tight. Spinning you around as you both laughed.

He smelled amazing, felt amazing. He was tall, messy haired and you could feel his heart beating beneath that big puffer coat.

“I found you” he said as he finally pulled his face from the crook of your neck.

The two of you looked at each others with smiles so big that they hurt your cheeks more than the cold.

“You certainly did, and perfect timing I might say” You answered as he returned you to the ground. He kept his arms around your waist though. You didn’t mind.

“I barely made it, who would’ve thought I’d end up having such a talented soulmate that sell out her first show months in advance?”

You felt the blush paint your cheek as you looked away from him. “Don’t be embarrassed, you should be proud. It’s such an amazing achievement”

He couldn’t help himself as he brought his hand to your cheek and forced your eyes back to his.

“What about you, what is it that you do since you’re suddenly here?” You slithered out of his grip and instead interlinked your pinky with his.

He smiled at the gesture, and he quickly knew this would be how he held your hand for as long as you allowed it. Together you walked down the street enjoying the cold and finally each other.

Niki chuckled. “Eh… I’m in a similar industry” he said as he ran a hand through his hair.

He didn’t expect that he would be this nervous actually talking to you, opening up. But he was scared all of the sudden, scared that anything he could say would want you to leave him behind.

You raised a brow at him, but didn’t push the subject, you were observing, letting him take his time.

“Do you know kpop?” he asked as he kicked some of the snow that lay on the road.

“I do”

“Well, I’m an idol… And are kind of here for a tour” he stopped in his tracks and watched you smile up at him.

“So a singer and a dancer then? You’re making me look bad”

He chuckled, as he felt the weight fall from his shoulders. "I don't think that is possible"

"What kind of dance?" You asked, and he couldn't help himself so he spun you around.

Niki watched as your body reacted by pure instinct, how you stepped up on your toes, even in your sneakers, how your leg lifted off the ground.

"Well definitely not ballet"

The two of you laughed together.

"Want to dance with me?" He asked as you stopped beneath one of the lights.

"I will dance with you for as long as you'll have me" You said as he pulled you closer with a smirk.

"I promise you one thing red, I am never letting you go. You have a dance partner for life with me"

So you danced there in the somewhat silence of the city as the snow fell around you. Two dancers, one soul, brought together by nothing more than a red string of fate

₊ ⁺ taglist: @why4anne @juicygirl4life @azzy02 @bluxjun @why-did-i-just-do-this @elairah @ramyeonzwithspam @floating-moon-dust @skyearby @acourtofmoonlightandstars @garrdenwonie @whateveridontcaresheesh @stormy1408 @tunafishyfishylike @sol3chu @spicxbnny @blvengene @fics-lovebot @fangirl125reader @acopenhagenarmy @tunafishyfishylike

[jincapableoflove]

The One That Got Away (Almost) | one-shot

Pairing: Jungkook x (f.) Reader

Genre/Tags: ex bf! jungkook, ex gf! reader, exes to lovers, second chances, wedding setting, mutual pining, angst, fluff.

Summary: You weren’t supposed to see him again. Not after everything. But when your mutual friends invite you to their wedding, you’re forced to face Jungkook—the boy who once had your heart, the man you never quite got over.

Word count: 3k+

Warnings:  tension-filled reunion, emotional vulnerability, painful reminiscing, longing stares, unresolved feelings, mutual pining, a near kiss, ambiguous ending (or is it?), fluff and angst intertwined.

Inspired by: diamonddaze01's fic "hesitate"

MOODBOARD

A/N: something i whipped up in less than an hour lmaooo idk what this i was studying for my finals and then suddenly got inspired. not edited/proofread

The moment you step inside, a wave of warmth and laughter crashes against you, loud enough to drown out the doubts still clawing at your mind.

You shouldn’t have come. You knew that the second you reached the grand entrance, standing outside for far too long, debating whether to turn around and disappear before anyone noticed you. But now, it’s too late. You’re here—surrounded by the golden glow of chandeliers, the delicate scent of fresh flowers, and the low hum of a string quartet playing in the background.

Guests in elegant attire drift past you, their smiles easy, their conversations effortless. You, on the other hand, feel out of place. Like a misplaced puzzle piece in a picture you no longer belong to. Your fingers tighten around the small purse in your hands, grounding yourself, trying to suppress the voice in your head that keeps whispering this was a mistake.

And then—your eyes lift, almost instinctively, drawn to a presence you don’t even realize you’re searching for.

There he is.

Jeon Jungkook.

Standing across the room, looking just as devastating as the last time you saw him. Maybe even more. His dark hair is neatly styled, but there’s still a hint of unruliness to it, like he ran his fingers through it moments ago. The sharp lines of his tuxedo fit him perfectly, tailored to a body you remember far too well. But it’s his face that steals your breath—because it’s different now.

A small silver pierces through his eyebrow, catching the warm light as he turns his head slightly. Your stomach tightens at the sight of it. Then your gaze drops, lower, to his mouth—oh. There’s a ring on his lower lip nowtoo, resting at the corner like it belongs there, like it’s always been there.

But it hasn’t.

He didn’t have them before. Not when you knew him.

And yet, standing there,with his piercing gaze locked onto yours, it’s impossible to imagine him any other way. Like this is who he was always meant to be. Like the boy you knew is long gone, replaced by someone sharper, someone who looks like he’s seen more, lived more.

Jungkook doesn’t look away.

And neither do you.

Because the moment your gaze collides with his, time folds in on itself, pulling you back to places you swore you’d never return to. Memories flicker at the edges of your mind, ones you spent too long trying to bury. Ones that still have the power to unravel you if you’re not careful.

But as he lifts his glass to his lips—piercing catching against the rim, a slow smirk tugging at his mouth—you realize something else.

You’re not careful. You've never been careful.

Not when it comes to him.

The air between you tightens, crackling with a tension you don’t know how to name. For a second, neither of you move. Neither of you speak.

Then—he takes a breath, tilting his head slightly. His lip ring glints under the warm lights, the movement drawing your attention, and suddenly, you’re hyper-aware of everything about him. The sharp cut of his jaw, his muscular frame, the way time has altered him in small, striking ways—yet, somehow, he’s still unmistakably Jungkook.

You force yourself to approach. You can’t just stand here, frozen, when he’s already watching you with that unreadable expression.

"Jungkook," you say, your voice carefully even.

"Y/N." His lips curve, just slightly, but there’s something guarded in his tone. Something that wasn’t always there.

The polite exchange feels strange—stiff and unfamiliar, like wearing a shirt that no longer fits right. There’s an awkwardness to it, a hesitance. You’ve spoken to him a thousand times before, but not like this. Not with this much distance wedged between you.

Before either of you can find the right words, a voice cuts through the thick silence.

"Oh my God, you two!"

You barely have time to process before Hana, your best friend, who is glowing and radiant in her wedding dress, steps between you, beaming. "I can’t believe this reunion is happening at my wedding," she gushes, clasping her hands together.

Jungkook exhales a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, while you muster up a smile, though your fingers tighten around your clutch.

"You were inseparable back then," Hana sighs dreamily, glancing between you. "I honestly thought you’d still be together."

Your smile falters.

Jungkook chuckles, low and soft, but there’s something strained in the sound—something only noticeable if you know what to listen for. And you do.

Before you can respond, another voice joins the conversation.

"Yeah, you two were a team."

You turn just as Namjoon walks up, hands in his pockets, a knowing glint in his eyes. He nods toward you both. "If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you both planned to avoid each other tonight."

Your breath catches, fingers curling slightly.

Because he’s right.

You weren’t supposed to see Jungkook. You weren’t supposed to be standing here, side by side, being dissected by old friends who still remember you as a pair.

It’s too much. The past presses in too tightly, threatening to unravel the fragile walls you’ve built around it.

You clear your throat, shifting on your feet. "I should—um, I need to go check on something."

The excuse is weak, but no one stops you.

Jungkook doesn’t stop you.

You turn on your heel, slipping into the crowd, the weight of his gaze lingering long after you walk away.

The memory creeps in before you can stop it. It always does when it comes to him.

Maybe it’s the way his voice sounded just now—lower, more restrained, like he was holding something back. Maybe it’s the way his lips curved into that half-smile, the same one you used to know, except now there’s something different about it. Something heavier.

Or maybe it’s just this place—this moment—forcing you to remember.

The beginning of the end wasn’t loud. There was no big fight, no shattered glasses or slammed doors. It was quiet. Subtle. The kind of unraveling that happens so slowly you don’t notice until it’s too late.

It started with the missed calls. You’d stare at your phone, watching the screen go dark after ringing out, telling yourself he’d call back. Sometimes he did. Sometimes he didn’t. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That he was busy. That you were busy. That things would go back to normal soon.

But they didn’t.

Then came the growing distance—conversations that used to last for hours dwindled to minutes. The effortless ease between you started to fade, replaced by careful words and spaces that never used to exist. You still reached for each other, still tried to hold on, but it wasn’t the same. It was like grasping at something that had already begun slipping through your fingers.

And then, one day, you realized—neither of you was fighting for it anymore.

Maybe that was the worst part.

Not the silence. Not the aching loneliness that settled between you even when you were in the same room. Not even the final moment when you walked away, knowing it was over.

No, the worst part was knowing that, in the end, you had both stopped choosing each other.

You wonder if Jungkook ever regretted it.

If he ever picked up his phone and almost called you. If he ever looked at old photos, reread old messages, and felt the same pang in his chest that you do now.

But as you steal a glance at him across the room—his piercing catching the light, his expression unreadable—you realize you don’t have an answer. Maybe you never will.

The soft hum of a love song drifts through the air, weaving its way through the golden-lit ballroom. You recognize it instantly—one of those songs that used to play in the background of late-night drives and whispered conversations, back when everything between you and Jungkook was easy. When love felt effortless.

You should walk away.

But before you can, Hana’s voice breaks through your thoughts.

She appears beside you, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Oh, come on," she teases, giving your arm a gentle push. "It’s just one dance."

You blink. "Hana—"

"Y/N."

His voice comes from behind you, deep and low, sending a shiver down your spine. When you turn, Jungkook is already standing there, hand outstretched, waiting.

The sight of him like this—watching you with quiet intent, his fingers inches from yours—it makes something in your chest tighten. His eyebrow piercing glints under the chandelier light, and for a second, you wonder how much has really changed between you.

You hesitate.

You should say no.

But you don’t.

Instead, you exhale a quiet breath and place your hand in his.

The warmth of his palm against yours is startling, a reminder of how well you once fit together. His grip is firm but careful as he leads you to the dance floor, and when his other hand finds the small of your back, you feel the air shift—like the past and present have begun to blur.

You move together, slow and measured, like muscle memory kicking in. The tension that once hung between you begins to soften, melting into something quieter, something almost tender.

But beneath it, the pain lingers.

It lingers in the way Jungkook’s fingers tighten slightly around yours. In the way his eyes search yours, like he’s trying to remember something he lost. Or maybe something he let go of too soon.

And then, softly—so softly you almost miss it—he speaks.

"Do you ever think about it?"

You inhale sharply, your chest tightening.

There’s no need to ask what it is. You know.

Your fingers curl slightly against his shoulder, and for the first time in a long time, you let yourself be honest.

"All the time," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jungkook swallows. And when he looks at you, it’s not just him looking at you. It’s the boy you used to love. The boy who once knew you better than anyone else. The boy who, despite everything, still holds a piece of you.

He looks at you like he’s seeing a version of the past—one he still wishes was real.

The night air is crisp against your skin as you step onto the terrace, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. The muffled hum of music and laughter fades behind you, leaving only the quiet rustling of leaves and the distant hum of the city. You press your hands against the cool railing, tilting your head back to stare at the sky.

You needed this. A moment to breathe. To gather the thoughts that have been unraveling since the moment you locked eyes with Jungkook tonight.

But you’re not alone for long.

Footsteps echo softly against the stone floor, and then—

"Running away again?"

The voice is unmistakable.

You don’t turn around, but your lips twitch. "Maybe."

Jungkook exhales a quiet chuckle, stepping beside you. His shoulder is close enough to feel, radiating warmth, but he doesn’t touch you. He just leans against the railing, mirroring your stance, gazing out at the horizon.

For a while, neither of you speak. It’s not the same suffocating silence that had filled the space between you before—it’s something different. Something hesitant, fragile.

And then, finally—

"I should have fought harder." His voice is low, but there’s no mistaking the weight behind it. "For us."

You swallow, fingers tightening against the railing. "We both should have."

Jungkook turns his head, watching you carefully. His eyebrow piercing catches the faint glow of the terrace lights, but it’s his eyes that hold you captive—deep, searching, carrying years’ worth of unspoken words.

"I never stopped wondering about you," he confesses. "Where you were. If you were happy. If you ever…" He trails off, shaking his head slightly, as if the words are too much.

Your chest aches.

Because you know exactly how he feels.

Your breath trembles as you force yourself to meet his gaze. "I never stopped missing you."

Something shifts in his expression—something raw and unguarded, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it out loud. His fingers flex against the railing, and for a split second, you think he might reach for you.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, you stand there, under the vast stretch of stars, caught in the space between what was and what could have been.

The world narrows to this moment.

The distant laughter and music from the wedding fade into nothing. The cool night air, the stars overhead, the lingering scent of roses from the terrace garden—none of it matters. Not when Jungkook is standing this close. Not when his eyes are locked onto yours like he’s searching for something he lost.

You don’t know how long you’ve been standing there, just looking at each other. But it feels like forever. And yet, not nearly long enough.

Then, so softly you almost think you imagined it, his fingers brush against yours.

It’s the lightest touch—barely there—but it’s enough. Enough to make your breath hitch, to send a shiver through your skin, to remind you how it used to feel when touching him wasn’t a question, just instinct.

His hand lingers, and your fingers twitch, tempted to curl around his.

Jungkook shifts closer.

Your pulse thrums as his gaze flickers down—to your lips, then back to your eyes. You can feel the heat radiating from him, see the slight hesitation in the way he exhales, slow and measured, like he’s trying to steady himself.

Then, he leans in.

Just a little. Just enough that you can feel his breath ghosting over your lips, warm and intoxicating.

Your heart pounds.

And for one fleeting, reckless second, you think—Maybe this time.

But then—

"Jungkook!"

The name cuts through the night like a blade, shattering the fragile moment between you.

You both freeze.

His shoulders tense, his lips part like he wants to say something—but the spell is broken.

Reality crashes down.

The night is ending. You can feel it in the way the air shifts, in the distant sound of laughter echoing from the reception hall, in the quiet, unspoken weight pressing between you and Jungkook.

He stands before you, hands buried in his pockets, eyes flickering with something unreadable. For a moment, he just looks at you—like he’s memorizing your face, like he’s trying to hold onto something before it slips away.

Like he wants to say something.

But then, instead of words, he exhales softly and smiles.

It’s small. Sad. Fleeting. The kind of smile that carries years of unsaid apologies, of missed chances, of everything that could have been but never was.

And just like that, you know.

This is goodbye.

Behind him, Namjoon watches the exchange, arms crossed, shaking his head with the kind of knowing that makes your chest ache. “Some things never change,” he mutters, almost to himself.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe this is just another chapter of the same old story—one where you watch Jungkook walk away, and he lets you.

Maybe this is how it’s always meant to end.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. You should let him go.

But—

"Jungkook."

His name barely makes it past your lips, but it’s enough. Enough to stop him in his tracks, enough to make his shoulders tense before he slowly turns back to face you. His expression is guarded, hesitant—like he doesn’t want to hope but can’t help it anyway.

Your pulse pounds, hands trembling at your sides. You don’t have the perfect words, no grand speech or well-rehearsed confession. But maybe you don’t need one. Maybe all that matters is this.

"Would you stay if I asked you to?"

The night air hangs heavy between you, thick with anticipation. For a heartbeat, you think he won’t answer—that maybe you’re too late.

But then—

His lips part on a quiet, shaky exhale. And when he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.

"I would."

Your breath catches.

Jungkook takes a step closer, then another, closing the space between you. His gaze flickers over your face—searching, waiting, making sure this is real. That you won’t take it back.

And you don’t.

For the first time in years, you choose him.

A slow, tentative smile tugs at the corner of his lips, chasing away the sadness that had been lingering there all night. His fingers brush against yours—warm, familiar, grounding.

This time, you don’t pull away.

This time, neither of you let go.

Maybe he was almost the one that got away.

Almost.

taglist: @dreamersparacosm @taekritimin123 @claireshelby @toosweetforyall @iamstilljk @jjkluver7 @travelgurrl @baechugff @whoa-jo @junniesoleilkth @kxthx-b @smoljimjim @jk97bam @dna-black-and-blue @sanarin @rebwwca @belleilichil

lmk if u liked it <3 (if this gets a good response i may or may not write a part 2/drabble for this couple)

[leftoverpages]

Loyalty’s embrace

Pairing 𓅪 Benjicot "Davos" Blackwood x betrothed!reader

Tags 𓅪 jealous and protective Benjicot, small fight scene (no gore), fluff at the end, romance, reader uses she/her but no physical description

Notes: i have been writing for a while without posting anything so this is making me nervous lmaooo

Wordcount 𓅪 1.3k

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

The grand ballroom of Blackwood Manor was awash with warm candlelight and the soft hum of conversation. The air was filled with the scent of roses and the clinking of crystal glasses. Lady Y/N stood at the edge of the room, a vision in her resplendent gown. Her dress, a masterpiece of crimson silk and midnight velvet, flowed around her like a river of fire and shadow. The bodice, embroidered with intricate patterns of gold thread, clung to her form, highlighting her grace and strength. Across her chest and shoulders, the Blackwood sigil was proudly displayed, a symbol of her new allegiance and her own fierce spirit.

The fabric shimmered in the candlelight, every movement sending ripples of light and shadow cascading over her. The skirt, full and layered, swirled around her feet like a tempest, the deep red contrasting beautifully with the inky black. A delicate gold chain rested at her throat, drawing attention to the elegant curve of her neck.

She stood there as her betrothed, Benjicot Blackwood, engaged in conversation with several lords and ladies. She found herself alone for the moment, sipping a glass of champagne and watching the festivities from afar.

Despite the grandeur, there was a nervous flutter in her stomach. Being betrothed to Benjicot, the fierce and enigmatic heir of House Blackwood, was both an honor and a daunting reality. Their engagement was more strategic than romantic, a union meant to strengthen alliances and secure power. Still, she had hoped to find some genuine connection with him, something to hold onto amidst the political machinations.

"Lady Y/N, you look ravishing tonight," a voice interrupted her thoughts. She turned to see Lord Cedric, a notorious flirt and known for his less-than-honorable intentions, standing far too close for comfort.

"Thank you, Lord Cedric," she replied, forcing a polite smile and taking a small step back.

He didn’t seem to notice—or care. "It's a shame you're tied down to Blackwood. A beauty like you deserves better," he said, his eyes raking all over her in a way that made her skin crawl.

"I am perfectly content with my betrothal, Lord Cedric," she replied firmly, trying to edge away. But Cedric persisted, moving closer, his hand reaching to touch her arm.

"Come now, Y/N, you can’t tell me you’ve never wondered what it would be like to be with someone else," he murmured, his breath hot against her ear.

Before she could respond, a strong hand gripped Cedric's wrist, pulling him away from her. "I believe the lady has made herself clear," Benjicot’s voice was low and dangerous, his dark eyes blazing with anger.

Cedric paled but tried to maintain his bravado. "I meant no harm, Blackwood. Just a bit of fun," he stammered, taking a step back.

Benjicot stepped between Cedric and Y/N, his posture tense and protective. "Your idea of fun is clearly misguided," he said coldly. "If I ever see you bothering her again, I will not be so forgiving."

Cedric sneered, his fear giving way to indignation. "And what will you do, Blackwood, uh? Throw me out of your pretty little ball?"

A dangerous glint appeared in Benjicot’s eyes. "No, Cedric. I’ll do much worse."

Before Cedric could react, Benjicot’s fist connected with his jaw, sending him staggering backward. The ballroom fell silent, guests suddenly turning to witness the confrontation. Cedric, recovering from the initial shock, lunged at Benjicot with a roar, swinging wildly.

Benjicot dodged, his movements controlled and precise. He landed another punch to Cedric's midsection, doubling him over. "You don’t know to quit, do you?" Benjicot muttered, grabbing Cedric by the collar and lifting him to his feet.

"Enough!" Cedric spat, struggling against Benjicot’s grip. "You think you can control everything? Even her?"

Benjicot’s eyes darkened further. "I don’t need to control her, Cedric. I trust her. Something you clearly don’t understand."

With that, Benjicot shoved Cedric away, causing him to stumble and fall to the ground. Cedric, breathing heavily and bruised, glared up at him. "This isn’t over, Blackwood."

"It is," Benjicot replied coldly. "And if you value your life, you’ll stay away from her."

Guards approached then, at Benjicot’s silent command, hauling Cedric to his feet and escorting him out of the ballroom. The guests slowly resumed their conversations, the tension dissipating, but whispers of the altercation lingered.

Benjicot turned to Y/N, his expression softening as he reached out to her. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice gentle.

She nodded, but her composure faltered, and tears welled up in her eyes. "Thank you, Ben. I didn’t know what to do..."

He stepped closer, his hand tenderly cupping her cheek. "You never have to face such things alone. Not while I'm here."

Y/N looked up at him, searching his eyes for any hint of insincerity. Instead, she found a depth of concern and protectiveness that took her by surprise. She had always seen him as distant, a warrior hardened by duty, but now she glimpsed the man beneath the armor.

"Why do you care?" she asked softly, her voice trembling.

Benjicot sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "I know our betrothal was arranged, but that doesn't mean I don't care for your well-being. I've come to admire your strength and grace, Y/N. I want us to be more than just a political alliance."

Her heart skipped a beat at his words. She had longed for some indication that he felt more than obligation towards her. "I want that too, Ben," she whispered.

He smiled then, a rare, genuine smile that made her heart flutter. "Then let's make it so," he said, taking her hand in his. "Together."

As they stood there, hand in hand amidst the glittering ballroom, Y/N felt a warmth spread through her.

Benjicot glanced around the room, the tension in his shoulders easing. He looked back at Y/N, his eyes filled with a tender resolve. "May I have this dance?" he asked, his voice soft and inviting.

Y/N felt her breath catch. She nodded, unable to speak, and he led her to the center of the ballroom. The musicians, sensing the moment, began to play a slow, melodic waltz.

As they took their positions, Benjicot's arm encircled her waist, his hand warm and steady. Her hand rested on his shoulder, and he guided her with a grace that belied his warrior's demeanor. They began to move, their steps perfectly in sync, the world around them fading into a blur of light and sound.

The music swirled around them, a symphony of emotions. They glided across the floor, each step a silent conversation. Y/N felt as if they were floating, the dance a magical respite from the political intrigue and uncertainty that had shadowed their engagement.

Benjicot's eyes never left hers, their dark depths reflecting a myriad of emotions. In that moment, she felt a warmth spread through her chest, a burgeoning hope that perhaps their union could be more than just a strategic alliance.

The music swelled, and Benjicot spun her gracefully, her dress flaring out like a crimson and black flower. When they came back together, he held her a little closer, his gaze softening even further.

"I meant what I said," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "I want us to be more than a political alliance. I want to know you, Y/N. To truly understand you."

She smiled, her heart fluttering with a mixture of nerves and excitement. "And I want to know you, Ben."

As the final notes of the waltz echoed through the ballroom, they came to a gentle stop. The guests around them erupted into applause, but Y/N and Benjicot remained in their own world, their gazes locked.

"Thank you for the dance," Y/N said softly.

Benjicot brought her hand to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to her knuckles. "The pleasure was mine," he replied.

In that moment, surrounded by the approving smiles of their peers, Y/N felt something shift. The alliance they had been forced into was beginning to transform into something real, something hopeful.

The future was uncertain, but for the first time, she felt truly seen and protected. And perhaps, just perhaps, they could find love in each other’s arms.

[cartierre]

NIGHTS LIKE THIS | ob3

❝ It's night like this when I need your love ❞

synopsis: and if only one night is meant for the two of us, is it worth falling in love for?

pairing: ollie bearman x fem!reader warnings: sweet, flirting, making out, angst, google translate italian word count: 4k

author's note: inspired by 'nights like this' by the kid laroi! there is a name drop towards the end but throughout the majority of the fic, reader's name is not mentioned.

The gym was packed with loud teenagers, all talking at a rapid speed trying to overcome the booming music that echoed through the big speakers. Everyone was dressed in gorgeous evening wear, most of the girls adorned glittery dresses while the boys stuck to traditional black suits. There was some finger food displayed on tables on the side, bowls filled with alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks quenching the students’ and teachers’ thirst. 

Ollie found himself misplaced among the Italian teenagers. He had only moved there a year ago and since he entered Formula Two, he barely attended any of his classes. He wasn’t even sure how exactly he had graduated, just that the heavy burden of getting good grades got lifted from his shoulders. 

At least one less thing he had to worry about.

His parents were long gone, only having stuck around for the official ceremony until they left him to “have fun with his fellow peers”. It’s ironic, he thought, since he didn’t even know most of their names.

The drink in his hand only had a few sips left, the prosecco leaving a bittersweet taste on his tongue. He felt a soft buzz from the alcohol, but ultimately decided against getting wasted with people he didn’t even fully understand. It was partially his fault, he never cared enough to pay attention in his Italian language class. 

“Che tragedia!” (How tragic!) He could hear his Italian teacher in the back of his mind. “Your Italian è terribile!” (Your Italian is terrible!)

Tugging at his tie around his neck, he feared he was close to suffocating from all the noise around him. Placing his drink on some of the tables splattered around the hall, he excused himself to no one in particular before sprinting up the stairs in the hallway leading up to the rooftop. He only found out about the spot a week ago, having got lost inside the school and accidentally ending up there.

The fresh air hit his face, though he immediately noticed that it wasn’t much cooler outside than inside. The Italian weather played against his plans, the sun not even fully set as it smiled against his cheeks.

Pulling his tie loose, Ollie still felt more relieved to have left the sticky gym. He felt stupid for not just going home with his parents, why did he decide to stay? It’s not like he had any friends to celebrate graduation with.

“Seems like I’m not the only one in need of escaping.” 

Only then did Ollie see a girl next to him. 

She leaned against the railing, a cigarette dangling between her manicured fingers. Her hair fell down her back, framing her face softly. She wore a black dress, way more simple than all the other girls he had seen, yet so elegant. He couldn’t help himself but glance at her breasts being pushed together by the dresses neckline. Ashamed, he quickly stopped analysing her.

“Cat got your tongue?” She smirked at him, raising her eyebrow as she took a drag of her cig. “Isn’t that what you English people say?”

“You know me?” He asked, perplexed that she knew about his nationality. Did he look that British?

“I’ve read about you.” She shrugged. “Wanted to know more about the futuro della formula uno, the future of formula one, that is supposedly my classmate.”

“I’m not even a Formula One driver.” Ollie corrected, though he felt the tip of his ears get hot from having such a beautiful girl call him the future of formula one. “And I’m even less of a classmate, probably.”

“Well, officially you are my classmate. Or were.” She smiled. “And once you’ll become a world champion I’ll brag about having been your classmate. Even if I’ve never seen you in person up until now.”

“Not sure about the world champion part, yet.” He shrugged, his hand gripping the railing as if he was about to fall. 

“Oh, he’s so humble.” The girl teased him, giving him a slight punch in the arm naggingly. “Well, the newspapers seem sure about it. You being champion material, or something like that.”

“The newspapers say a lot, whether it’s true or not.” He felt his cheek burn in embarrassment. Ollie wasn’t one to push his ego, he’d rather prove his worth on track than talk big without having anything to show for.

She didn’t say anything. Her eyes scanned over him, as if analysing him from top to bottom. He didn’t know what was going on in her head, but right now he wished he could read her mind. She took another drag of her cigarette, and even if Ollie despised the smell of tobacco, he somehow liked it when she smelled like it. 

Gosh, what was he thinking? He didn’t even know her, yet somehow he felt so serene next to her.

“Why do you think so little of yourself?” She settled to ask after a minute of observing. 

“I don’t.” He simply answered, though his voice was quivering, unsure of what he should’ve said.

“You’re a bad liar.” She chuckled. “Your posture says differently. You’re unsure of yourself and your abilities, but why?”

“I guess…” He cleared his throat, her intense analysis of him humbling him even more. “I guess I don’t want to put the same pressure and expectations everyone puts on me on myself as well.”

He turned to look at her, finally gathering enough courage to do so. Her head was tilted to the side, her lips wrapped around her cigarette to take one final puff before throwing it on the ground and stepping on it. 

“Wanna get out of here?” She asked instead of reacting to his words.

Ollie was taken aback by her request, admiring her boldness of asking straight away rather than talking around it. Without wanting to sound arrogant, Ollie was used to girls asking him for certain things. Sometimes, he loved the attention, especially right after a good race, but with her he felt shier than ever. 

So it surprised him when he answered confidently.

“Sí.” (Yes.)

With another smirk towards him, the girl clearly satisfied with his answer, the two of them sneaked back down again to escape the facility. He sucked in a breath of fear when he saw her grabbing a bottle of prosecco nonchalantly before exiting the school. Ollie was sure they’d get busted for stealing, however none of the teachers seemed to care much as none of them even batted an eye.

“They have enough of that stuff,” She said as she saw his face drenched in worry. “Don’t act like we’re stealing anything valuable. Also, I bet Ferrari has paid them enough to let you pass so think of it as a little gift.”

He had never encountered someone like her, Ollie realised as she popped the bottle the minute they stood outside. Taking a sip straight from the bottle, she let out a sigh. “They have the good one as well.”

Offering him a sip, she pulled out another Vogue cigarette and lit it with her lighter. “I don’t assume you smoke, but regardless, do you want one?” She said as she held out the pack in front of him.

Ollie hesitated a bit, but ultimately declined. He was sticking to the prosecco. 

“Figured.” She shrugged and shoved the pack back into her little purse. 

“So- uh- where to now?” He asked, taking another sip of the drink. He felt himself growing more nervous every minute he spent with her. 

She smiled, taking his hand boldly and running off into a certain direction. Ollie stumbled forward, not expecting her approach, but then took off behind her and followed her blindly. 

At that moment, he would’ve followed her anywhere.

Giggling uncontrollably, she kept turning her head around to him from time to time. Her hair was flowing behind her as if she was from another planet, somewhere where beauty lit up the night. Her beauty certainly lit up his night.

“Come on,” she slowed down, taking small breaths, her cheeks slightly shiny from the sweat. “It’s not far.”

“Where are you taking me?” Ollie’s face was flushed, his locs sticking to his forehead from all the running. The summer air was hitting his face and he felt warm under his suit jacket. 

“It’s a sorpresa!” She just said, opening her mouth slightly and nodding towards the prosecco in his hands. 

His brain malfunctioned for a second, then started acting without thinking. In a smooth motion, he poured some of the liquid into her mouth, accidentally spilling some. The alcohol ran down her chin, trailing down her chest and inbetween her breasts. 

Ollie felt hot, and this time it wasn’t just the summer heat.

She laughed after gulping down the sparkling wine, wiping her chin with her hand, careful not to smudge her lipstick. 

“Ehi!” (Hey!)

Ollie ducked down, as if he would dodge a bullet, from the sudden shrill voice coming from above. The girl kept laughing, ignoring the old woman screaming at the two from her little balcony. 

“Silenzio!” (Be quiet!) The old woman yelled at them again, raising her fist as if to curse them. “È tardi, idioti!” (It’s late, you idiots!)

“Non essere così duro!” (Don’t be so harsh!) The girl yelled back, still giggling. “Vivi un po', nonna!” (Live a little, grandma!) She stretched out her hands like a starfish, twirling around until she stumbled. 

Ollie was quick to wrap his hands around her waist, keeping her from falling to the ground. Only when she was gripping his biceps to steady herself, he realised how close he was to her. 

“Vai via da me!” (Go away from me!) The grandma kept yelling, Ollie not understanding anything the two were saying. “Voi due piccioncini...” (You two lovebirds...) She mumbled and shook her head, making her way inside her house again and leaving the two on their own.

“Arrivederci!” (Bye!) The girl giggled, waving the old lady goodbye as if she didn’t just curse at them.

“Now the last bit I got.” Ollie joked, stepping away from her again. He took a sip from the alcohol, feeling like that was the only source keeping him stable for now. 

“Look at you, little Italian.” She joked back, brushing her hand against his chest before reaching up and loosening his tie even more. She had to step on her toes to reach him, despite being in heels, then patted his chest when she was done. “Don’t want you to suffocate.” She whispered, giving him a flirty look before stepping away and nodding towards the end of the small alley they were in. “This way, follow me.”

When she turned his back to him, he threw his head back and prayed to whoever to help him get through without losing his mind, before following her yet again.

Eventually, and without any other disruptions, the two of them ended up outside a small pizzeria, which surprisingly was still open. There weren’t many people inside, just your local neighbours and a few drunks getting their snack. 

“Aahh!” The owner smiled as he saw the girl enter. “La mia piccola stella!” (My little star!)

“Zio Enzo!” (Uncle Enzo!) She greeted him, sharing their kisses on each cheek as accustomed in Italy. 

They continued talking in Italian, Ollie gathering one or two words here and there from his lessons, but not enough to properly follow their conversation. He realised his teacher would normally talk at a much slower pace, probably to help him understand each word clearly, though now it seemed of little help to him.

“... Formula…?” The owner looked at Ollie, eyeing him up and down. Ollie felt uncomfortable, not knowing what exactly they were talking about, and awkwardly smiled at him. He waved at the owner, not sure what else to do. 

“He’s your friend, no?” Finally, the owner switched to a language Ollie was able to understand. “Il tuo ragazzo?” (Your boyfriend?)

“No, no.” She shook her head, side eye-ing Ollie quickly to see if he had understood what Enzo had asked her. He didn’t seem so, as he stared cluelessly at her.

“Welcome, welcome!” He reached over the counter to greet the young boy, patting his cheek before stretching his arm out to his co-worker. “A pilota di Formula uno in my pizzeria! Francesco, can you believe it?”

“I’m not a Formula One-”

“Una pizza napoletana da asporto per favore.” (One Pizza Napoletana to go, please.) She interrupted him, smiling at the owner sweetly. 

“Ovviamente!” (Of course!) The owner smiled brightly at the two young people. “Pizza Napoletana to go, Francesco, did you hear that?” He turned back to the couple. “Ready in about fifteen minutes. You want something to drink?”

Ollie held up the half empty prosecco bottle, making the owner laugh out loud and nodding in encouragement before getting back to the other customers. 

“So, that’s your uncle's shop?” Ollie asked, trying to open a conversation while waiting for their pizza. 

“Oh no,” The girl shook her head, laughing a bit. “Everybody here calls Enzo their uncle. He’s been here forever, we all grew up eating his pizza.” 

“Oh.” Ollie’s face got hot in embarrassment. 

She laughed at him, slightly punching his arm when she noticed how red he got. “Is that a British thing?”

“What do you mean?” He was confused by her question.

“You get red all the time!” She exclaimed. “I look at you and you’re flushed. At first I was honoured to make you blush, but now I think you’re just like that constantly.”

He was like that constantly just because she was there. But she didn’t need to know that.

“Yeah, I guess it’s a British thing.” He scratched his neck, his face hot again, lying to her face since he didn’t want to admit how flustered she makes him ever since they met.

“It’s a cute British thing.” She slightly pushed him, grinning from ear to ear. “Don’t stop.”

He couldn’t even if he wanted to.

“Pizza Napoletana for my little stella!” 

Taking the pizza carton, the two bid their goodbyes to Enzo before continuing their way down the small alleys. Along the way, Ollie felt her hand intertwining with his again. He didn’t protest.

“We’re here!” She yelled laughingly, letting go of his hand to run forward. “Come on!”

They found themselves at the beach, the small town behind them glittering in the water as the lights reflected on the surface. There were nearly no people on the beach, surprisingly, and Ollie had to hold back his laughter when he saw the girl getting rid of her shoes to feel the sand between her toes. 

“I love the beach.” She said when he came up to her, pizza in one hand and prosecco in the other. He placed both of it carefully on the ground before taking his jacket off, laying it down onto the sand to somewhat protect them from the sand. 

Sitting down, he realised just how close they were to fit into his jacket. Though he wouldn’t ever complain about it. Sharing the pizza, the two of them were silently enjoying the view and food, sharing a sip of prosecco every once in a while, emptying the bottle. 

It’s gotten late. More and more of the few people around them started packing up their stuff. Ollie’s phone had no more battery left, so he was unsure just what time it was. Looking to his right, he also didn’t care what time it was. 

The two were now laying on the beach, their heads sharing the space on Ollie’s suit jacket. Next to them was the empty pizza carton next to the prosecco bottle. They’d clean it up later. 

“... and that’s Andromeda, named after the Ethiopian princess saved by Perseus. She was chained to a rock, being sacrificed to the sea monster Cetus.” She pointed towards the sky, tracing the star constellation she just talked about. “You see?”

He couldn’t really decipher any of the constellations she pointed out to him, Ollie just liked listening to her talking about something she was passionate about. So he nodded, humming in agreement.

“You’re not paying attention!” She scolded him jokingly, shoving his shoulder with her own and giggling when she noticed how she ripped him out of his trance. 

“No, no, I was!” He tried to defend himself. 

“Really? Then where is Andromeda?” She raised her brow, her lips stretched into a smirk. 

Clearing his throat, Ollie turned his head to look at the stars again, randomly pointing at the bright points decorating the night sky. “See, right there.”

Laughing at his attempt, she just shook her head and took his hand into hers. Stretching his pointy-finger out, she helped him slowly trace the Andromeda constellation. “She’s right here, glowing beautifully above us.” She whispered, her eyes soaking up the beauty of the stars while his eyes were drowning in hers.

Slowly, her hands holding his traced each of his fingers. They went over his knuckles, following the lines on the palm of his hand before stopping on his wrist. None of them talked, enjoying the silence and the feel of each other's skin while the waves splashed softly in the background. 

She felt him staring at her from the side, finally turning to him and meeting his eyes. Their hands were still up in the air, though she dropped hers when he felt his hand coming down. He cupped her face gingerly. 

His thumb traced her cheekbone, just as her fingers used to trace his hand, until they stopped at her lips. Her lipstick had been long gone after they finished the pizza, though Ollie found himself enjoying her natural lips just as much as her painted ones. 

He softly swiped over her lips, feeling the shaky breath she let out on his thumb. He couldn’t stop staring at them, wondering what they’d feel like on his lips, what they’d taste like. 

What she would taste like.

“Now or never.” She whispered, making his eyes snap back at hers. 

He leaned over her, using his elbows and free hand to stabilise himself to not crush her with his weight. “Sì?”

“Sì, Oliver.”

Ollie groaned, his full name sounding so appealing when it came out of her lips, and suddenly he’s never felt so sure about something. 

He leaned down, pressing his lips against hers. He was sure he'd never felt so many butterflies going around his stomach. He had goosebumps all over his body, his face flushed yet again and the nervosity fading away with every passing second.

His hand cupping her face moved to her hair, his fingers entangling with her hair and his body moving more and more on top of her. He felt her hands wandering up his back towards his neck, pulling him towards her. Her hands settled on his chest, her nails scratching over the fabric of his dressing shirt. 

His hand, previously holding him up which now his knees did, settled on her waist, tracing small circles over his dress. Her legs wrapped themselves around his waist, her back arching upwards and pressing against his chest.

Ollie felt himself going crazy when he felt her whimpering against his lips, his mind on autopilot as he kissed her down the neck, sucking on her pulsing point which had her moaning and panting. Her nails scratched against his scalp, the slight pain making him groan against her skin. 

“Ollie-” She gasped, throwing her head back as she felt one of his hands tracing the curve of her boob. “Oh Dio…” (Oh God…)

Hearing his name, Ollie snapped out of his trance. Breathing heavily, he pulled away from her slightly to calm down for a second. “Fuck…”

Her taste lingered on his lips, the feeling of kissing her consuming his whole. He knew they needed to stop before things got out of hand, he figured she realised that exact thought as he looked into her eyes. 

Ollie rolled over, leaving the space on top of her and settling down next to her.

There was silence between them, the sound of the waves mixing with their heavy breathing. Suddenly, she started giggling beside him. Not knowing why, Ollie felt the urge to just join her. 

Both giggling, neither of them sure why, and yet the two of them understood each other.

She sat up, looking down at him sideways. “I think it’s time to go.”

Ollie wasn’t sure if she knew how crushing her words were. He wanted to freeze this moment, freeze this moment with her. If it was up to him, he’d never leave this night. 

But it wasn’t up to him, so he stood up and helped her do the same. Dusting the sand off of themselves, Ollie grabbed his suit jacket and shook it before placing it on her shoulders. She smiled at him, and he was sure her eyes sparkled as much as the sky above them. 

They disposed of the carton and bottle in a trash can in front of the beach. The alleys ahead of them were completely empty and Ollie was sure it must’ve been the early hours of the day by now. 

Neither of them shared many words on their way home. He was dreading the moment they separated, and feared making conversation would only speed up the time until then. So he settled for just holding her hand, and she settled for clinging onto his arm. 

But talking or not, eventually they reached the hotel Ollie was staying in. 

“I guess this is it.” She entangled herself from his grip. “Pilota di Formula uno.” (Formula One driver.)

“Doesn’t have to.” He whispered, his eyes searching the depths of hers. “England isn’t that far away, you know. And there are races here in Italy.”

She just smiled at him. “Don’t forget about me when you’re on top.”

“I don’t think I could ever forget about you.” He breathed out.

“Forever is a pretty long time.”

“Not long enough.”

She chuckled at his response, shaking her head. “You’ve gotten a lot bolder ever since the beginning of the night.”

“Learned from the best.” He winked at her, making her laugh out loud. He felt himself grow prideful, he made her laugh again. Oh how he loved her laugh.

“Yeah, your future girlfriend can write me a thank you postcard from England.” She teased, though her joke fell on deaf ears. He didn’t laugh. 

Awkwardly, she looked at her feet. Now she felt herself grow hot within her.

“I don’t even know your name.” Ollie realised out of the blue. 

She looked up at him, now grinning again and feeling relieved at the topic change. “You didn’t figure it out?”

“Figure out what?” He asked cluelessly. 

The girl outstretched her hand. “I’m Andromeda.”

Playing along, he took her hand, slightly bent down and softly kissed the back of it. “Pleasure to meet you, Andromeda.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” She chuckled at his antics, lightly bowing back at him. They both laughed at their situation.

“Drive safe, Oliver.” She smiled sadly at him, both of them knowing it was now finally the time to say goodbye. “And if you ever find yourself back here, maybe stop by Zio Enzo’s pizzeria, alright? Maybe you’ll find me there.”

“I’ll be looking for you.” He breathed out before taking one final step towards her.

Cupping her face again, he pressed a lingering kiss against her lips, cherishing this moment one more time. She melted into him instantly, her hand falling flat against his chest. 

Parting, they breathed each other’s air. His thumb traced her lips again, his rough skin tasting salty against her tongue. He looked deeply into her eyes, memorising their sparkle just like the star constellation she was named after.

“Addio mia stella.” (Goodbye, my star.)

[odileeclipse]

In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 2

<<<Previous Next>>>

Shadow Milk Cookie settled into the seat beside you with an air of quiet amusement, his presence both grounding and unnerving. Up close, the details of his mismatched gaze became all the more striking, the eerie glow of his cerulean and gold eyes holding an intensity that seemed to peel back layers of pretense. It wasn’t just that he saw it felt as though he understood, as though he could pluck your scattered thoughts straight from the air and weave them into something coherent. “Let us begin,” he said, his voice smooth yet commanding. You swallowed hard, your parchment still a mess of ink-stained errors, a battlefield of numbers and theories that refused to align. Shadow Milk Cookie glanced at it, his expression unreadable as he took in the frantic scrawls. Rather than offering immediate critique, he his finger along the parchment’s edge, eyes flickering back toward you. “You are thinking too rigidly,” he observed. “You attempt to fit the answer into a predefined shape rather than allowing the concept to form naturally.” You blinked. “I… don’t understand.” Professor Almond Custard Cookie leaned against his desk, watching the exchange with wary interest. “You wouldn’t be the first,” he murmured under his breath.

Shadow Milk Cookie chuckled softly, the sound low and knowing. “Knowledge is not meant to be forcefully contained. It must be understood, internalized. Here, allow me to demonstrate.” With an effortless movement, he reached for a fresh parchment and quill, his elegant script forming a diagram an intricate illustration of magical resonance fields under celestial influence. His explanations came in measured, deliberate tones, never rushing, never expecting you to grasp concepts immediately. “You view mana stabilization as a fixed equation,” he continued, tapping a specific point on the diagram. “But it is, in truth, a dynamic balance. Think of it like… breathing. Inhaling, exhaling. Expansion, contraction. There is rhythm. A natural cadence.” You hesitated, processing his words. No scholar had ever explained it that way before. Everything up until now had been rigid formulas, memorization, the pressure to solve rather than to understand. Shadow Milk Cookie was asking you to feel the answer, not just recite it.

Tentatively, you reached for your quill, mirroring the motions he had drawn. Your lines were shakier, less confident, but as you followed his guidance, the equation began to make sense in a way it never had before. Professor Almond Custard Cookie, arms crossed, let out a thoughtful hum. “I must admit, that’s… an unusual approach.” Shadow Milk Cookie merely smiled. “Truth is rarely found in convention alone.” For the first time in weeks, the weight pressing on your chest eased. You weren’t miraculously enlightened, nor had you suddenly mastered the subject but for the first time, you felt like you were on the right path. “Shall we continue?” the Sage of Truth prompted, tilting his head ever so slightly. You inhaled deeply, steadying yourself, then nodded. “Yes.”

Shadow Milk Cookie…no, the Sage of Truth sat with a composed patience that made your nerves tangle further. Even as you hesitated, he remained steadfast, his gaze unwavering, expectant yet unpressuring. The weight of his presence pressed down on you, not in suffocation, but in silent encouragement. There was no condescension, no mockery just pure, unwavering certainty that you would learn. That you could learn. You gripped the edges of your parchment tighter, struggling to find where to even begin. Your thoughts swirled like ink spilled over a page, spreading outward in a chaotic mess. The Principle of Arcane Equilibrium. Lunar mana stabilization. Celestial harmonics. You had seen these terms in your notes, had copied them from the board, but the meaning behind them remained just out of reach. The Sage of Truth leaned forward slightly, steepling his fingers. “Let us begin at the foundation,” he said smoothly. “Tell me, what do you understand about arcane resonance?”

You swallowed, feeling your professor’s eyes on you as well. It was a simple question. One you should be able to answer. And yet, your thoughts stumbled, grasping at fragmented knowledge that refused to piece itself together. “I-It has to do with mana flow,” you started hesitantly, shifting in your seat. “How it interacts with… external forces?” You winced at how uncertain you sounded. Shadow Milk Cookie did not look disappointed. If anything, he looked intrigued. “A fair starting point,” he mused. “However, ‘interacts with external forces’ is far too vague. Be specific what forces? How do they affect mana flow?” You floundered, scanning your notes for an answer, but all you saw were half-finished scribbles and hastily written corrections. “I-” The words caught in your throat. Professor Almond Custard Cookie sighed heavily. “(Y/N) Cookie…” His tone was weary, but Shadow Milk Cookie merely raised a hand, silencing him. “I see now,” the Sage of Truth murmured, tilting his head slightly as if you were a puzzle to be examined. “It is not ignorance that holds you back. It is hesitation.” You blinked. “Hesitation?” “You grasp at knowledge but do not claim it.” He tapped a gloved finger against the wooden desk. “You doubt yourself the moment you speak. You are afraid of being wrong, and in that fear, you deny yourself the chance to be right.”

Your breath caught in your throat. How… how had he seen through you so easily? Your professor had pointed out your struggles before, but never quite like this. Never so precisely. Shadow Milk Cookie continued, his voice calm but firm. “Truth is not found in perfect answers, but in the willingness to seek them. Even in error, there is progress.” His heterochromatic gaze bore into you, gentle yet inescapable. “Do you truly wish to learn?” You clenched your hands into fists. “Of course, I do,” you said, the words leaving you with more force than intended. His lips curled into a satisfied smile. “Then let us move forward.” He gestured toward your notes. “Forget perfection. Forget your fear of being incorrect. Simply tell me what you think the answer is?” Your throat felt dry. Your mind raced with possibilities, most of which you were certain were wrong. But his words echoed in your head. Truth is not found in perfect answers, but in the willingness to seek them.

You inhaled slowly. “Mana flow is affected by celestial cycles… The lunar phases alter the frequency of arcane resonance, which means…” You paused, daring to glance up at him. He nodded, encouraging you to continue. “…which means that during a lunar eclipse, the lack of direct celestial influence causes the mana field to destabilize. So, to stabilize it… you’d need to use a principle that counteracts that absence.” Your voice wavered, uncertainty gnawing at you. “Is that… the Principle of Arcane Equilibrium?” For a moment, there was only silence. Then, Shadow Milk Cookie’s smile widened ever so slightly. “Now that,” he said, his voice brimming with approval, “was a well-reasoned answer.” Your breath left you in a sharp exhale. He wasn’t dismissing you. He wasn’t telling you that you were wrong outright. For the first time in what felt like forever, you had strung together a response that held weight. That held potential.

Professor Almond Custard Cookie let out a soft huff, shaking his head. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “I say the same thing for weeks, and yet he gets through to you in a single conversation.” You flushed. “I-It’s not that I wasn’t listening to you!” You could only feel the pit in your stomach growing…maybe not speaking was better. Every word spoken felt like one more dig at your grave…you practically had one foot in. Your professor merely waved a hand. “Oh, I’m not offended. Frankly, if it takes the Sage of Truth himself to make you finally push past that mental block, so be it.” He shot Shadow Milk Cookie a look. “You’re stuck with them now.” You stiffened. “W-Wait” Shadow Milk Cookie chuckled. “Ah, how fortunate.” His eyes gleamed with something unreadable. “It seems our discussions have only just begun.” Your stomach twisted. This was going to be a very, very long mentorship.

The weight of the evening’s lesson still pressed heavily upon you as you finally stepped out of your professor's office, your parchment clutched tightly in your hands. The cold evening air of Blueberry Yogurt Academy greeted you with a sharp breeze, carrying the faint scent of parchment, melted wax, and the lingering traces of magical incense from the hallways. You exhaled, shoulders sagging with exhaustion. You had survived. Somehow. Behind you, Professor Almond Custard Cookie remained in his office, no doubt relieved to finally have a moment’s peace. You could still hear his parting words in your head "You’re making progress. Keep at it." though his voice had been tinged with exasperation. Whether he truly believed you were improving or if he was merely grateful to have you off his hands for the night, you weren’t sure. What you were sure of, however, was that walking back to your dorm in the dimly lit corridors of the Academy gave you far too much time to reflect on the night’s events. Your thoughts circled around your earlier conversation, looping in a relentless spiral. 

"You doubt yourself the moment you speak."

 "Truth is not found in perfect answers, but in the willingness to seek them."

"Do you truly wish to learn?"

You swallowed, your fingers tightening around your notes. The Sage of Truth no, Shadow Milk Cookie had spoken to you as if your struggles were not a burden, but a simple step in the process of learning. As if you were not lesser for failing. He had made it sound so obvious, as if understanding should be as natural as breathing. And yet, even now, you weren’t sure if you believed it. Your footsteps echoed softly against the ancient stone floors as you turned the corner toward the dormitories. The corridors of Blueberry Yogurt Academy were eerily beautiful at this hour, bathed in the pale glow of enchanted lanterns that floated gently overhead. The stained glass windows, depicting past scholars and grand celestial phenomena, cast fragmented reflections against the polished floors. The halls were nearly empty, save for the occasional scholar or staff member drifting by, their murmured discussions fading into the night. Then, you noticed him. A few steps ahead, walking in the same direction as you, was Shadow Milk Cookie. You froze mid-step.

His long robes, embroidered with ancient sigils and lined with deep celestial blues, trailed elegantly behind him. The soft glow of the lanterns illuminated his features sharp yet composed, his heterochromatic gaze focused forward in quiet contemplation. There was an effortless grace to his stride, a presence that commanded both reverence and curiosity. He walked like one who belonged in the halls of academia, as if knowledge itself guided his every step. You swallowed hard, your breath catching in your throat. It was one thing to sit across from him in a study session, where his attention had been directed solely at you. That alone had been overwhelming. But now, watching him in his element, unbothered by the presence of others, was something else entirely. He was a legend within the Academy. A beacon of intellect, respected by scholars far beyond these halls. Countless students, yourself included, had looked up to him, studied his theories, marveled at the sheer depth of his understanding. He was a figure so revered that it seemed almost unnatural to see him doing something as mundane as simply… walking back to his quarters.

You barely realized you had slowed your pace, allowing more distance between you. The last thing you wanted was to seem as if you were following him. Unfortunately, it seemed he had already noticed your presence. "You need not linger in the shadows, you know," he mused, his voice smooth, carrying just enough amusement to make your stomach twist. You nearly tripped over your own feet. "I wasn’t!" He stopped, turning slightly to glance at you, and you felt yourself shrink under the weight of his gaze. There was no judgment in his expression, only quiet interest. "Our paths align, it seems," he continued, tilting his head ever so slightly. "Surely, there is no harm in walking together?" There was a simple logic to his words. A logic that did little to calm your nerves. Your hands tightened around your parchment as you forced yourself to nod. "O-Of course not," you managed to say, though the words felt clumsy on your tongue. He resumed his pace, and you hesitantly stepped forward to match it, though you kept a respectable distance between you.

For a moment, silence stretched between you, save for the sound of your footsteps echoing against the stone. You risked a glance at him, taking in the way his gaze remained steady, lost in thought. Even in stillness, there was an air of quiet brilliance about him an unshakable confidence in the way he carried himself. You wondered, not for the first time, what it must be like to think as he did. To see the world through his eyes, where every fragment of knowledge seemed to fall perfectly into place. …How had someone like him ended up offering to help someone like you? Right…Because the professor insisted so. You imagine it’s because he was at his wits end with you.  The thought made your stomach churn. "You are quiet," Shadow Milk Cookie observed, not unkindly. "Is your mind burdened by today’s lesson?" You flinched. "I…Um- No! I mean- Yes? I mean…" You let out a quiet groan, rubbing your temple. "I just… I still don’t understand why you would bother." He stopped walking. You barely had time to react before his gaze was on you once more, sharper now, as if you had just presented him with a particularly intriguing puzzle. "Why wouldn’t I?" he asked simply. You stared at him. "Because you’re you." The words left your mouth before you could stop them, but they were true. He was him. A scholar unlike any other. The Sage of Truth. A role model to so many. And you were… you. He regarded you for a long moment. Then, to your utter disbelief, he chuckled. It was a soft sound, quiet yet unmistakably amused. "Ah," he mused, shaking his head. "You place me upon a pedestal so high that you fail to see the truth, even when it stands before you." You stiffened. "What truth?" "That I am merely a scholar, much like yourself." He stepped forward slightly, and you felt your breath catch. "I seek understanding. I seek knowledge. And I seek to share that knowledge, just as those before me have done. That is all." You swallowed hard, unable to tear your gaze away. "You believe I stand beyond your reach," he continued, his voice quieter now. "But tell me… Is that not an illusion of your own making?" The words settled deep within you, leaving you momentarily speechless. He did not wait for an answer. Instead, he resumed walking, as if his statement had been nothing more than a passing remark. You, however, were left rooted in place, your thoughts spinning wildly. Was it truly an illusion? Or had you simply convinced yourself that it was?

You hesitated for a long moment, his words lingering in your mind like an unsolved equation.

"Is that not an illusion of your own making?"

Something about the way he had said it so effortlessly, so assuredly made you feel as though you had been caught in the act of deceiving yourself. As if the way you saw him, the way you saw yourself, was nothing more than a fragile illusion you had crafted without realizing it. And yet… You gripped your parchment a little tighter, your steps quickening until you fell into pace beside him once more. "If…" Your voice wavered, but you forced yourself to speak. "If illusions are so easily made, then… isn’t truth an illusion in itself?" For the first time since the conversation had begun, Shadow Milk Cookie stopped walking entirely. You nearly stumbled forward from the suddenness of it, but when you turned to face him, his expression had shifted. Gone was the amused scholar indulging in a casual discussion. In his place stood the Sage of Truth, eyes gleaming with something deeper something unreadable. Slowly, he turned to face you fully. "An illusion…?" he echoed, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. Your throat tightened. Perhaps you had spoken too boldly, questioning something so fundamental to him. But it was too late to take it back now. "You said I place you on a pedestal," you said carefully. "That I see something in you that isn’t real. That my perception of you is just… an illusion of my own making. But… isn’t truth also shaped by perception? Isn’t it possible that what we see as truth is just another illusion? Something we convince ourselves of?"

Silence stretched between you. The Academy halls, once vast and endless, now felt small and confined within the weight of the question hanging in the air. The lanterns above flickered gently, their glow casting shifting shadows against the stone walls. Then, to your utter shock, Shadow Milk Cookie smiled. Not his usual, knowing smile the kind that came when he had already deciphered the answer before the question had even been asked. No, this was something else. Something closer to satisfaction. "Ah," he breathed, eyes alight with intrigue. "Now you are asking the right questions." Your breath hitched. He clasped his hands behind his back, tilting his head ever so slightly. "Tell me, then," he said, his voice smooth, measured. "If truth were an illusion, then what makes it different from any other falsehood? What separates reality from deception?" You opened your mouth, then shut it again. How were you supposed to answer that? His gaze never wavered, patient yet expectant. He was not dismissing your question. No, he was indulging it feeding it, waiting to see where you would take it. The realization sent a shiver down your spine. Even now, after hours of struggle, after making a fool of yourself in the lecture hall and in office hours, he was still encouraging you. Still pushing you to think, to question. Not because he doubted you, but because he wanted to see if you could reach the answer on your own. Your hands clenched at your sides. Perhaps… perhaps that was the difference. Perhaps truth was not a static thing, an unshakable force that simply existed. Perhaps it was something sought after, something earned.

A beat of silence stretched between you, the weight of his question pressing heavily upon your thoughts. Try as you might, no answer came, not one you were confident in, at least. You swallowed hard, gripping your parchment as though it might somehow grant you clarity. Your mind twisted and turned, sifting through everything you had ever learned, everything you had ever questioned. But no matter how you approached it, the answer remained just out of reach. Slowly, you exhaled. Then, with great reluctance, you admitted, "I… don’t know." Shadow Milk Cookie watched you carefully, his expression unreadable. He did not scoff, nor did he look disappointed. If anything, there was something almost expectant in his gaze.

You hesitated before speaking again, your voice quieter this time.

"When…" You shifted your weight, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. "When is our next tutoring session?" The moment the words left your mouth, you wanted to sink into the floor. What were you even saying? You had spent the entire evening resisting his help, yet here you were, asking for more? But it was too late to take it back now. Shadow Milk Cookie blinked once, then let out a soft chuckle. "Ah…" His smile was small but unmistakable. "So you wish to continue?" You fidgeted, heat creeping up your neck. "I mean…" You cleared your throat. "I still can’t answer your question. And I doubt I’ll figure it out on my own." His eyes gleamed, a knowing amusement dancing within them. "Perhaps not yet." Your fingers curled around your parchment. "So… when?" For a brief moment, he simply observed you, his heterochromatic gaze searching. Then, with a slow nod, he said, "Tomorrow. Same time." Your breath caught. So soon? You had expected him to at least hesitate, to question if it was worth his time to continue tutoring a student who struggled so much. And yet, he had answered without a second thought. He had already decided. You nodded stiffly, unsure of what else to say. "Alright… Tomorrow, then." "Indeed." He inclined his head slightly, the candlelight catching the silver edges of his robes. Then, without another word, he turned forward once more, resuming his steady pace down the corridor. You lingered for a moment, watching him, still unable to fully grasp how you had ended up here. The Sage of Truth, the scholar admired by all, had willingly taken you under his wing. And, whether you were ready or not… Tomorrow, it would begin again.

The night air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of parchment and old stone as you walked the winding path toward the dormitories. The lamps flickered gently, their glow casting elongated shadows across the cobbled walkways. The Academy was quiet at this hour, only the occasional distant murmur of scholars deep in discussion broke the silence. And yet, despite the stillness, your thoughts churned like a storm. You had asked him when the next tutoring session would be. And he had agreed. The realization sent a fresh wave of regret coursing through you. You wanted to take it back. To insist that you had only spoken in the moment, that you didn’t actually need his help, that you were fine struggling on your own. But you couldn’t. Professor Almond Custard Cookie had already made you his problem. You could still hear your professor’s resigned sigh from earlier, the subtle relief in his voice when the Sage of Truth had offered his guidance. That had been the final decision. The moment Shadow Milk Cookie had taken an interest, your fate had been sealed.

You weren’t just his student now. You were his baggage. And worse, you didn’t want to fail. No matter how humiliating it was to struggle under his piercing gaze, no matter how small you felt in the presence of someone whose mind operated at a level you couldn’t even fathom… you knew the truth. You weren’t going to make it on your own. Your grip tightened around the strap of your bag as you risked another glance at him. He walked with that same effortless grace, his long robes trailing just slightly with each step, his expression thoughtful but unreadable. He didn’t acknowledge your unease, nor did he seem weighed down by the burden of tutoring someone as hopeless as you. Because to him, this wasn’t a burden at all. That, somehow, made it worse. You exhaled slowly, willing your nerves to settle. The dormitories were just ahead. Soon, you could retreat to your room, bury yourself under the weight of your own thoughts, and figure out how you were going to survive this. Because tomorrow, there was no turning back. 

The next day the afternoon sun cast long shadows over the courtyard, its warmth doing little to ease the weight pressing on your chest. You sat slouched on a stone bench, a half-eaten pastry in your hands, letting the idle chatter of your friends wash over you. “You’re lucky you weren’t in class earlier,” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie groaned, stretching out beside you. “Professor Caramel Chiffon assigned three new readings. Three. And he hinted at a quiz. An unannounced quiz.” Chai Latte Cookie snorted. “Sounds about right.” Earl Grey Cookie adjusted his coat, ever composed. “Frankly, I don’t understand why you’re complaining. It was a straightforward lecture.” Hazelnut Biscotti rolled his eyes. “Easy for you to say, Mr. ‘I Read Ahead for Fun.’” Chai Latte turned to you then, raising an eyebrow. “Wait, weren’t you supposed to be in that lecture?” You hesitated, fiddling with the edge of your sleeve. “…Yeah.” Hazelnut Biscotti sat up, grinning. “You skipped?” Earl Grey frowned slightly. “That’s unlike you.” “I needed a break, okay?” You sighed, rubbing your temple. “I was so lost yesterday that Professor Almond Custard Cookie actually sent me to the Sage of Truth for tutoring.” They went silent. Then Hazelnut Biscotti whistled. “Whoa. That’s, uh… That’s serious.” Chai Latte’s eyes widened. “Wait, the Sage of Truth? Like, Shadow Milk Cookie?” “The one and only,” you muttered, slumping against the stone bench. “And before you say anything, no, I don’t know how this happened. One second I was getting grilled in office hours, and the next, he was standing there, offering to help.” Earl Grey’s expression turned thoughtful. “That’s… quite the opportunity. He doesn’t just tutor anyone.” You groaned. “Yeah, thanks, I know.” Chai Latte leaned in with a sly smile. “And you didn’t immediately pass out from embarrassment?” “Oh, I wanted to,” you admitted. “But now I’m stuck. Professor Almond Custard basically assigned me to him like I’m some kind of lost cause. I can’t back out without looking like an idiot, and I really don’t want to fail.”

Hazelnut Biscotti chuckled. “So what you’re saying is, you’re the Sage of Truth’s baggage now.” You shot him a look. “Please don’t put it like that.” Earl Grey folded his arms. “Well, are you actually going to his tutoring sessions?” “…Yeah.” You exhaled, rubbing the back of your neck. “But I’d rather keep it quiet. The last thing I need is everyone knowing I need extra help, especially from him.” Chai Latte gave you a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, we won’t tell a soul.” “Thanks.” You exhaled. “I just needed a break today. I can’t handle another hour of feeling completely stupid.” “Understandable,” Hazelnut Biscotti said with a shrug. “One bad day is not gonna kill you.” Earl Grey, though still looking skeptical, didn’t push further.

The conversation shifted to lighter topics, who had actually blown up the alchemy lab, whether the Academy’s bakery was secretly using illegal enchantments to make their pastries addictive, and speculation about which professor would crack under stress first. It was… nice. Until Hazelnut Biscotti suddenly grinned. “Oh, this is interesting.” You blinked. “What?” Chai Latte hummed. “A rather esteemed scholar seems to be gracing us with his presence.” Earl Grey smirked. “And he’s not alone.” You followed their gaze and your stomach dropped. Shadow Milk Cookie. Walking through the courtyard with two other scholars, deep in conversation, his presence as commanding as ever. His embroidered robes shimmered in the light, his expression composed, thoughtful every bit the revered academic you’d always admired from a distance. And he was heading this way. Panic seized your chest. If he sees me, he’ll know I skipped class. Without thinking, you grabbed Hazelnut Biscotti’s sleeve and yanked him closer. “Hide me.” He choked on his laughter. “Oh, this just keeps getting better.” Chai Latte barely stifled a giggle. “Wait, why are we hiding you? You like him, don’t you?” You gawked at her. “What?! No! That’s not-” “Ohhh, this is priceless,” Hazelnut Biscotti wheezed. “I don’t like him!” you hissed. “I just don’t want him to know I skipped class!” Earl Grey raised an eyebrow. “So, the great Sage of Truth personally tutors you, and instead of actually attending lectures, you’re hiding from him in a bush?” You buried your face in your hands. “I wasn’t planning on hiding in a bush, but if that’s what it takes-” “You’re ridiculous,” Chai Latte giggled, before glancing over at Shadow Milk Cookie’s group. “Okay, okay, he’s almost past us, just don’t move.” You froze, heart hammering. Shadow Milk Cookie’s voice drifted closer, measured, inquisitive, effortlessly drawing his companions into discussion. And then He paused. You stopped breathing. Earl Grey, ever the calm one, muttered, “You definitely look suspicious right now.” Before you could respond, Shadow Milk Cookie resumed walking, his group moving past without so much as a glance in your direction. As soon as they were gone, you collapsed back against the bench with a heavy sigh. Your friends immediately lost it. Hazelnut Biscotti doubled over laughing. “You should’ve seen your face-” Chai Latte wiped away tears. “You so looked like a guilty student caught by a professor” “I was a guilty student caught by a professor!” you groaned. Earl Grey smirked. “You’re just lucky he didn’t see you.” You exhaled, feeling utterly drained. “I really hope so.” Hazelnut Biscotti leaned back with a grin. “Either way, that was hilarious.” You shot him a glare…But at least you weren’t caught. Probably.

Chai Latte Cookie leaned forward, propping her chin on her hand. “So… what’s he like?” You blinked, still recovering from your near-exposure. “Huh?” “The Sage of Truth,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows. “You’ve actually talked to him now, right? So what’s he like?” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie grinned. “Yeah, is he really as mysterious and wise as everyone says?” Earl Grey Cookie sipped his tea, ever composed. “I’d imagine he’s rather intimidating.” You hesitated, shifting uncomfortably under their expectant stares. The truth was, you weren’t entirely sure how to describe him. You had only met him once well, formally, anyway. Sure, you had seen him before, standing at the podium in grand lectures you never attended, passing by in the halls with that effortless air of authority. But actually sitting with him, discussing your academic struggles? That was different. You exhaled. “Honestly… I don’t know yet.” Chai Latte raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean? You met him, didn’t you?” “Well, yeah,” you admitted. “But it’s only been one session. And most of that was just him trying to figure out how bad I actually am at this.”

Hazelnut Biscotti snickered. “That bad, huh?” You groaned, covering your face. “Don’t remind me.” Chai Latte Cookie nudged you. “Come on, though. First impressions? What was it like sitting across from the Sage of Truth?” You thought back to yesterday how he had arrived in the office so suddenly, brimming with discoveries before shifting his attention entirely to you. How effortlessly he had unraveled your mistakes, yet without a trace of condescension. How he had challenged you, his golden gaze expectant, patient, assured. “…He’s sharp,” you admitted after a moment. “Like… really sharp. It’s like he already knows the answers but wants to see if you can get there.” Earl Grey Cookie hummed. “That makes sense. A true scholar guides rather than simply provide.” You nodded. “Yeah, but the problem is, I couldn’t get there. No matter how he rephrased it, I just” You sighed. “I couldn’t keep up.” Chai Latte frowned. “Did he get frustrated with you?” You shook your head. “No. If anything, it was worse. He was patient.” Hazelnut Biscotti winced. “Oof.” “Yeah,” you muttered. “It made me feel even dumber.” Earl Grey considered this. “Patience can be more unnerving than reprimand. It forces you to confront your own inadequacies.” You stared at him. “…Yeah. Exactly that.” Chai Latte nudged you again. “But come on, there’s gotta be more to him than just being smart.” You hesitated, thinking back to the way he carried himself so composed, so sure. How his words carried weight without force. How he had looked at you not with disappointment, but expectation, like he truly believed you could improve.

“…He’s confident,” you said slowly. “Not in an arrogant way. Just… assured. Like he doesn’t doubt himself. Ever.” Hazelnut Biscotti whistled. “Must be nice.” Earl Grey nodded. “A scholar of his caliber would have little reason to doubt.” Chai Latte smirked. “And? Is he at least nice to look at?” You nearly choked. “What?!” She grinned. “Come on, you can’t tell me the robes, the hair, the mystique don’t at least add to the appeal.” Hazelnut Biscotti waggled his eyebrows. “All the scholars love him, you know. And not just for his wisdom.” You buried your face in your hands. “I am not discussing this.” Earl Grey shook his head. “This is hardly relevant to his academic prowess.” “Exactly!” You gestured to him. “Thank you!” Chai Latte just laughed. “Okay, okay, we’ll drop it. But you are going back, right?” You exhaled, slumping back. “Yeah. I don’t really have a choice.” Hazelnut Biscotti grinned. “Well, if nothing else, at least we’ll get more firsthand reports on the great and mysterious Sage of Truth.” You groaned. “You all are the worst.” Chai Latte beamed. “And yet, you love us.” You rolled your eyes, but despite yourself, you smiled.

A/N There will be more interactions with the sage dw but I need to build the world it would be super unrealistic if we had no friends LOL And I know there's a canon Earl Grey Cookie but I only realized after I finished sooo it's up to yall to picture him as the canon or come up with your own appearances all the other cookies mentioned are made up <3

<<<Previous Next>>>

[dancinglikebutterflywings]

F*ck Tradition | Yoongi

- Pairing: Min Yoongi x Fiancee!Reader - Requested by: No One - Synopsis: Y/N takes Yoongi with her to go wedding dress shopping because her fiancées opinion is the only one that matters. - Requests: Open for now. Please read my requesting guidelines before requesting. - Warnings: None - Word Count: 1,125 - this was meant to be a timestamp but turned into something longer. - Taglist: Open. Send an ask or fill out the Tag List Form.

Min Yoongi Masterlist | BTS Masterlist

"You should try it on," Yoongi suggests to his fiancée, noticing her stealing glances at the black wedding dress tucked away in the corner, far from the sea of traditional white gowns. It feels like the hundredth time she's looked at it since they arrived, and while Y/N might think she's being subtle, he can see her fascination as they wait for the consultant to help them.   

"Try what on?" she asks, attempting to make her interest in the dress look less obvious as she focuses on her soon-to-be husband. 

"The black dress that you can’t keep your eyes off," he grins, fully aware of her feelings. After all, he knows her better than anyone else. Leaning in a bit closer, he lowers his voice. "I can see it in your eyes, Y/N. You love that dress already." 

"But wedding dresses are supposed to be white, right? Something traditional. What will people say if I choose that?" she asks, unsure. 

"Who cares about other people’s opinions?" he replies confidently. "It’s our wedding day, mine and yours, and we can wear whatever we want. If that dress is the one you want, then wear it. Fuck tradition. We’re already breaking it."  

Biting her bottom lip, Y/N glances back at the dress, its fabric shimmering subtly under the store's lights, the deep black hue contrasting beautifully with its white surroundings. It’s unlike anything she’s ever imagined, yet she finds herself drawn to it. 

Before she can say anything, their consultant returns, "Sorry about that," she apologises for the wait, "Have any of the dresses caught your eye?" 

"The black one over there," Yoongi replies, pointing to the dress while Y/N shakes her head in protest. She’s about to decline, but he gently stops her. "Just try it on and see how you feel in it." 

Noticing the uncertainty in Y/N's eyes, the consultant adds, "Many of our brides are opting for non-traditional dresses these days. Just last week, we sold a lovely baby blue gown, and a dusty pink one a month ago." 

Y/N glances between Yoongi and the consultant, her heart racing at the thought of stepping outside the traditional boundaries of what colour a wedding dress should be. The black dress, with its elegant silhouette and intricate lace and beading detailing continues to lure her in. But, the weight of tradition looms heavily in her mind, casting shadows of doubt.  

"Okay," she finally concedes, her voice steadier now. "I’ll try it on." 

The consultant beams, clapping her hands together in delight. "Wonderful! Let’s get you into that dress," she says and leads them to a more private fitting area before going back to get the dress.  

As Y/N steps into the fitting room, her heart races with a mix of excitement and anxiety. She glances at Yoongi, who takes a seat on the couch, his expression a blend of encouragement and anticipation. 

“Just remember,” he says, his voice steady, “this is about you and you get to wear whatever you feel comfortable in.”  

Y/N nods, taking a deep breath as the consultant returns with the black dress draped over her arm. “Here we go!” the consultant smiles, “let's get you into the dress.” 

A wave of excitement washes over Y/N as she follows the consultant into the cozy dressing room nearby. The thrill builds as she undresses, and the consultant assists her in putting on the dress. The cool fabric glides against her skin. As the consultant makes adjustments, Y/N catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. The dress fits her curves beautifully, enhancing her figure in a way that feels both empowering and stunning. The lace flows elegantly down the dress, and the beadwork sparkles in the light. For a moment, she forgets about the traditional gowns she had considered.  

“Wow,” she whispers, her voice soft. The reflection looking back at her is not just a bride; it’s a woman who feels confident and daring, ready to embrace one of the most significant days of her life.  

“You look amazing!” the consultant praises, stepping back to take in the sight of the dress. “It fits you perfectly. We might not need to make any adjustments. It seems like it was made just for you.”  

Y/N turns, her heart racing as she twirls slightly, the fabric swirling around her. A smile spreads across her face, the joy of the moment enveloping her.  

“Shall we go show your future husband?” the consultant suggests. 

Y/N's heart skips a beat at the thought of Yoongi seeing her in the dress. She nods eagerly, her excitement bubbling over.  

The consultant leads her out of the dressing room, and to where Yoongi is still seated on the couch, waiting. Y/N takes a deep breath, trying to calm the fluttering in her stomach.  

She gives Y/N a reassuring smile, and with a gentle nudge, she steps forward. “Ready to see your beautiful bride?” she asks, getting Yoongi’s attention. 

Yoongi looks up from his phone, his expression turning from curiosity to awe in less than a second, and Y/N feels a rush of warmth flood her cheeks. 

“Wow,” he breathes, his eyes widening as he takes in the sight of her in the black dress. “You look absolutely breathtaking.”  

A shy smile spreads across Y/N’s face. “Do you really think so?” she asks, her voice tinged with disbelief and hope.  

“More than anything,” he replies, standing up and stepping closer, his gaze never leaving her. To him, the dress reflects her personality—bold, elegant, and unapologetically herself. “That dress... it’s perfect for you. It’s like it was made for you,” he repeats the consultant’s words from earlier. 

Y/N’s heart swells, and she can’t help but feel a surge of confidence.  

The consultant watches the exchange with a satisfied smile. “I’ll let you two have a moment alone,” she says, stepping out of the room to give the couple some privacy.  

Yoongi and Y/N share a look filled with love and excitement, and in that instant, all the stress and pressure of wedding planning fades away. Y/N can feel tears in her eyes as she stands before him. She takes a deep breath, trying to steady the emotions swirling within her. “Thank you,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. 

“For what?” he asks, reaching out to wipe away the tear that had fallen, as he steps even closer to her, being mindful not to step on the dress. 

“Noticing me looking at the dress, convincing me to try it on,” she replies. “Knowing me better than anyone else.” 

“So, this is the dress?” he asks. 

“This is definitely the dress,” she confirms, smiling softly. 

“You look so beautiful,” he says returning her smile and pulls her in for a kiss.  

@staytiny2000 - @do-you-remember-summer-127 - @alexxavicry

[rottenfyre]

𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄𝐘: 𝘚𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘰𝘣𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘈𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘈𝘦𝘨𝘰𝘯, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰 𝘪𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧.

The Red Keep was a place of beauty, grandeur, and luxury—a place where everything was meant to be perfect, from the tapestries on the walls to the gowns worn by the ladies of the court. It was a place where you, the embodiment of elegance and grace, thrived. You were known as the beauty, a title you wore like a crown, and you made sure that your appearance reflected nothing less than perfection.

But as of late, there had been something—or rather, someone—who had been disturbing that sense of perfection. That someone was your little brother, Aegon, a child who, in your eyes, was the complete opposite of everything you held dear.

It wasn’t just that he was a child—though that was annoying enough on its own. No, what truly disturbed you was the state he always seemed to be in. His hair was a mess of tangled silver curls, his clothes always dirty, wrinkled, and utterly soulless. You couldn’t understand how anyone could allow a prince—your future husband—to look so… disgusting.

The thought made your skin crawl.

You had tried to ignore it, hoping that someone—anyone—would take the initiative to correct the problem. But no one did. And so, after seeing him one too many times running around the gardens, covered in dirt and wearing those horrid little tunics, you decided you had had enough.

You stormed through the halls of the Red Keep, your gown billowing behind you as you made your way to Queen Alicent’s chambers. When you arrived, you didn’t even bother to wait for the guards to announce you. You pushed open the door and stepped inside, your expression a mixture of determination and disgust.

Alicent looked up from her embroidery, startled by your sudden entrance. “Y/N,” she said, a hint of surprise in her voice. “Is something the matter?”

You didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Yes, there is,” you replied, your tone sharp. “It’s about Aegon.”

Alicent’s brow furrowed. “Is he alright?”

“Physically, yes,” you answered, your words clipped. “But his appearance is another matter entirely. He’s always dirty, his clothes are atrocious, and his hair looks like it hasn’t seen a brush in days. Frankly, it’s an embarrassment. He’s a prince, not some common street urchin.”

“He’s just a child,” she said gently. “Children get dirty; they play, they explore—”

“I don’t care,” you cut her off, your voice firm. “If I am to be his wife, then I refuse to be associated with someone who looks like that. If you cannot ensure that he is properly taken care of, then I will do it myself.”

The queen looked taken aback by your words, but after a moment, she sighed and nodded. “Very well,” she said quietly. “If that is what you wish, then I won’t stand in your way.”

You didn’t respond to that. Instead, you gave a curt nod and turned on your heel, leaving the chamber as swiftly as you had entered. Your mind was already working on the changes you would make—starting with getting rid of every single one of those dreadful tunics he wore.

You found Aegon in the gardens, as expected. He was playing in the dirt again, his little hands caked with mud as he babbled happily to himself. The sight made you grimace in disgust. How could anyone let a prince get so filthy?

“Aegon!” you called sharply, making him look up in surprise.

He beamed when he saw you, his face lighting up with that innocent joy that only a child could muster. “Y/N!” he exclaimed, starting to run toward you, his arms outstretched.

“Stop right there,” you ordered, holding up a hand to halt him in his tracks. “Don’t touch me with those dirty hands.”

Aegon���s face fell, his little smile fading as he looked down at his mud-covered fingers. He seemed confused, hurt even, but you didn’t let it sway you. You had a job to do.

“Come with me,” you commanded, your tone leaving no room for argument. “We’re going to get you cleaned up.”

Aegon followed you obediently, though he kept a small distance, as if he was unsure whether he was in trouble or not. You led him back inside, where you summoned a group of maids and ordered them to take him away for a proper bath.

“Make sure he’s thoroughly cleaned,” you instructed them, your tone cold and precise. “I want him spotless.”

The maids nodded and took Aegon away, leaving you alone to begin your next task. You made your way to his chambers, where you ordered all of his old clothes to be removed and replaced with the finest silks and velvets. You personally oversaw the selection, choosing only the best fabrics, the richest colors, and the most elegant designs.

By the time Aegon was brought to you, freshly bathed and dressed in a simple but luxurious robe, you were ready for the next step. You had already laid out a few options for his new wardrobe and were just finishing your final selections when the maids brought him into the room.

Aegon looked at you with wide, curious eyes, his freshly washed hair falling in soft curls around his face. He looked much better already, but there was still work to be done.

“Come here,” you said, gesturing for him to sit on the stool in front of you.

He hesitated for a moment, but then obeyed, climbing up onto the stool and sitting as still as he could. You picked up a brush and began to work on his hair, frowning as you encountered knot after knot. Aegon winced, letting out small whimpers of pain as the brush tugged at his tangled curls.

“Stay still,” you ordered, your voice firm but not unkind. “A prince must be strong and brave. He cannot cry over something as simple as having his hair brushed.”

Aegon bit his lip, trying his best to remain silent as you continued to work on his hair. It took longer than you anticipated, but eventually, his curls were smooth and glossy, falling neatly around his face.

You set the brush aside and took a step back, admiring your work. He looked much better now—clean, well-dressed, and presentable. A proper little prince.

“There,” you said, satisfied. “That’s much better.”

Aegon looked up at you with wide eyes, still unsure of what to make of all this. “Y/N,” he said quietly, his voice small, “you mad at Aegon?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. “No, Aegon,” you replied, your tone softening slightly. “I’m not mad. I just want you to look your best. You’re going to be my husband one day, and I can’t have you running around looking like… like that.” You gestured vaguely to the memory of his earlier state.

Aegon stared at you for a moment, then suddenly reached out and hugged you, his little arms wrapping around your waist. “love you, wifey,” he mumbled against your gown, his voice muffled but sincere.

You froze, your heart skipping a beat at his words. “I-I told you not to call me that.” you stammered, your usual composure slipping for a moment.

“Wifey,” Aegon repeated, looking up at you with those big violet eyes, full of trust and affection.

You didn’t know how to respond to that. Part of you wanted to correct him, to tell him that he shouldn’t call you that until you were actually married. But another part of you—one you weren’t quite ready to acknowledge—found it oddly endearing.

Instead of saying anything, you let out a small sigh and gently lifted him into your arms, carrying him over to the bed. “Alright,” you said softly, trying to keep the affection out of your voice. “It’s time for bed.”

You dressed him in a pair of soft, silky nightclothes that you had selected earlier, making sure they were comfortable and warm. Then you tucked him into the bed, pulling the covers up to his chin.

Aegon reached out for you as you moved to leave, his small hand grabbing onto your sleeve. “Wifey, stay with Aegon,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. “Please?”

You hesitated for a moment, then sighed and climbed into the bed beside him. You let him snuggle close, his little body warm against yours as he rested his head on your shoulder.

As you lay there, listening to his soft, even breaths, you found yourself humming a lullaby, the tune soft and soothing in the quiet of the room. Aegon’s grip on your sleeve relaxed as he drifted off to sleep, his face peaceful and content.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to simply enjoy the quiet, the warmth of his small body curled up against yours. It wasn’t something you had ever imagined doing—caring for a child, even if that child was your future husband—but as you watched him sleep, you couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of contentment.

“I just want the best for you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you brushed a strand of silver hair from his forehead.

Aegon mumbled something in his sleep, his little hand grasping for yours. You hesitated before allowing your fingers to gently intertwine with his. The softness of his small hand in yours was surprisingly comforting, though you would never admit it aloud.

Part 1 ♡ Part 2 ♡ Part 3 ♡ Part 4 ♡ Part 6

@ 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒. 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒚, 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒆𝒃𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔.

[lis-likes-fics]

The Kinder Beast

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Reader Word Count: 13.3k words Warnings: NSFW, attempted sexual assault, groping, oral (m and f!receiving), fingering, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, technically coercion, thus dub!con, virginity loss, p in v sex, creampie... A/N: I wrote like at least half of this in one night and then stopped to sleep and ruined my streak. This was supposed to be done like three days ago but I had a bit of a menty b for like...a full day and that didn't happen. Anyway, enjoy me (finally) getting around to writing for Aemond. Thanks! <3

He was always watching you.

Your skin crawled with the feeling of his gaze burning holes into your flesh. Always on you, always watching, daring to get you alone. You could never escape him.

You feel it at dinner as you pour cups of wine, one cup far more than the others. You feel it after dinner while you help the other servants to clean the table. Sometimes it is almost as though you can feel more than one gaze.

It haunts you.

Even as you're alone in the servants’ chambers where all the servants of the royal family slept after everyone has found sleep, you feel it. It's a horrifying thing, to feel so vulnerable so often.

You keep your head down at dinner, holding a pitcher of wine steady in your grasp and hoping against all hope that he would forget you were there. But the gods seemed to laugh at you and your naïve hopes.

“Aye,” he calls, raising his cup. “Serving girl.”

You lay your eyes on Prince Aegon, moving quickly as you cover the distance between you. Every inch demolished is an ounce of your bravery pouring down a drain until you are standing right by him.

You have to be careful tipping the pitcher, lest you spill the expensive drink all over his clothes, a hundred times more expensive than the wine. Though your fingers grip it tight and your palms shake the metal, you successfully manage your task with no issue.

It's as you're fixing the pitcher from its tilt when a greedy hand gropes the cheek of your ass. Your whole body jumps and you close your eyes, pretending all is well and that you are simply imagining the whole ordeal. You breathe in, straightening up and wishing he would let you go. Again, the gods seem to defy your every hope as Prince Aegon's hand begins to discreetly rub.

“Girl.”

Your gaze shoots across the table to an icy one unlike the greed in his brother's eyes. He watches you, his eye dark and his posture so full of poise and elegance—contrasting with Prince Aegon's jaded, dulled position beside you.

Prince Aemond raises his cup toward you, inclining his head back as he sends a gentler order. “More wine, please.”

You nod, keeping your gaze to the ground as you were meant to, and you make your way to his side. Prince Aegon's hand is forced to let go of you, and a weight is lifted off your shoulders—even if the heat of his hungry gaze bore holes into the back of your head that no amount of food or wine would satiate.

Prince Aemond sets his cup down, and you fill it. And when you've finished, he nods softly. “Thank you.”

For a split moment, your eyes meet. Prince Aemond's gaze is much more considerate than his brother's, but it is no less intense. His stare is dark, dangerous. He watches you, and he doesn't stop watching. Just as Prince Aegon never halts his scrutiny, neither does his brother's—at least when you're in the room. Prince Aemond, if nothing else, is kind enough not to stare when he's not in the room.

Prince Aegon never looks away.

You feel like a bird, a bird locked in a cage to be forced to sing, to be looked at and spectated until they lose interest and snap your neck to replace it with something better, something newer and prettier than a common songbird.

Sometimes you wish they would just go on and be done with it.

“You're welcome, my prince.” Your voice is small, a whisper. Though he seems kinder, the both of them scare you to death…one considerably more than the other.

Even now, your hands tremble, the clinking of the cups on the tray you carry echoing through the hollow walls. You take a steadying breath, willing your heart to calm as you assure yourself that you'll be fine.

The door you stand before is large, imposing. The room behind it is suffocating, it's dark and full of dangers that make you want to run. The idea of crossing this threshold into a world beholding so much danger and threat leaves you shaking. But you can't leave. How you wish you could leave…

You knock carefully to announce your presence before you push open the doors and hope for the best.

You take a step inside, glancing around anxiously. “My prince?” you call out as steadily as you can. Your body grows cold at the sight of him, lounging back in a chair with a cup in his hand.

Prince Aegon smiles devilishly at you, his eyes slightly sunken into his face, marked by exhaustion and drunkenness. “Ah,” he says, gesturing toward you with a coarse hand as you continue to walk further inside, keeping your head down. “She's brought my tea.”

The sound of a second voice washes over you in a sea of relief, and you briefly thank the gods for granting such rare mercy upon you. “It's a shame it shall go to waste,” he says. When you glance his way, the sight of Prince Aemond fills your gaze. His eye watches you as he sits back, and his gaze never wavers. “You and I both know you prefer your wines and ales.”

You walk to the table separating the brothers, setting the tray down. Just as you do, Prince Aegon rises to his feet, his cup in one hand as he walks over. You're nearly shaking, staring at the floor as you struggle to find your voice the closer he gets.

You have to clear your voice in order to speak. “Is- Is there anything else you need…my prince?”

He smiles, coming to stand at your side, his face so close to your cheek. You can hear the way he smells you, his sigh blowing against your shoulder. “Yes, there may be something you can help with…” You shudder, staring at the floor and refusing to look his way.

Without turning away from you, the prince speaks. “Dear brother, would you mind giving us some privacy?”

You close your eyes, willing the tears away as you try not to appear weaker than you already do. You flinch when you feel his knuckle brush your cheek.

Prince Aemond hums, clasping his hands in his lap. “But I'm quite comfortable here,” he says matter-of-factly.

You glance up at him, a glimmer of hope in your eyes as you look upon him. He's got the smallest grin on his face, but he doesn't even look at you. He watches his brother as his annoyed glare darts his way.

Prince Aegon looks like he'll fight his brother. His hand drops from your cheek. The breath you let out is silent. “Well, there are plenty of comfortable places in this castle, Aemond. Perhaps you might find yourself there instead.”

He shrugs. “But watch how well my boots fit perfectly when I place them here.” He lifts his feet, one after the other, to rest on the table near the tea tray. Again, he grins at his brother.

“Well, boots belong on the floor.”

“A shame for my feet, really. They do so enjoy a rest every once in a while.”

Prince Aegon's frustration is clear. He rolls his eyes and looks at you, a glimmer in his eyes that frightens you. He lowers his voice to a murmur. “Then perhaps you and I can go somewhere a little more private to…speak.”

You open your mouth to say something—you don't know what, likely just incoherent stammers of little value. Prince Aemond, it seems, is your ultimate savior.

“Unfortunately,” he interrupts, “that is not possible either. You see, she is busy.”

You both look at him to elaborate. Prince Aegon glances around the messy room and shakes his head. “I don't see a job needing tending to.”

You could name a few, but you really just want to leave.

Prince Aemond is unfazed. “I do,” he counters. He looks at you. His gaze betrays no sentiment, simply focus and a bit of amusement at frustrating his brother. “Girl, you are to take His Highness’ boots over there and shine them until they are brighter than the sun.” He tilts his head. “We can't have the prince walking around with dirty boots… Do you understand?”

You nod quickly, standing a little straighter. “Yes, my prince.”

He nods. “And they are especially disgusting, you might acquire some help while you do.”

You don't know why he is helping you, but who are you to question him when he is being so kind?

“Yes, my prince.”

He turns away from you then, reaching forward to grab a cup of tea from the tray. As he stirs it, he hums. “Make haste then.”

You move quickly, nodding as you break away from Prince Aegon's presence. He huffs, rolling his eyes as he watches his brother. You snatch up the boots, stopping by the door as you leave the both of them, not daring to look either in the eye. “My prince… my prince.”

You flee, and the door closes loudly behind you as you do. Aegon turns to his brother, shaking his head as he moves to sit once more. “My boots are not disgusting.”

Aemond hums. “You haven't seen your boots.”

~

The sound of fire and laughter and music fills the air. It's dark out, so dark it would be hard to see without the giant bonfire raging at the center. It's the most fun you've had in a while. Queen Alicent released you and a few of the other servants from duty for the night to enjoy the festivities as gratitude for hard work.

“Come on! You're no fun when you do not join the dance!” Emalia urges, pulling lightly on your arm so you would come with her and the others.

You lean back on your heels, laughing as you shake your head and balance your cup in your hand. “No! I do not need to make a fool of myself in front of the whole dynasty by tripping over my feet and falling flat on my face, Emailia.”

She rolls her eyes. “Please! Nobody is watching you.”

You wish that had been true.

“Besides,” she smirks at you slyly. “You may attract a man's eye.”

“All the more reason not to go.” She groans, unimpressed by your insistence of remaining a total bore. You smile, letting her go. “Go dance. I am perfectly content to stand here and watch.”

She hums, giving up as she turns on her heel to leave. You laugh lightly to yourself. As you cradle your cup in your hand, you raise it to your lips for a drink.

You'd been alone for no more than a minute, watching people holding hands as they danced around the roaring flames, before you had, in fact, caught a man's eye.

“Don't you look pretty tonight?”

You fumble your cup as it falls to the ground, spilling its contents over the dirt. Chills rush down your spine, devouring every slip of comfort in your body and leaving you cold. You keep your eyes down, staring at the wine in your cup as you try to find your voice buried in your distress.

His voice comes from behind you, a dark hum haunting your being. You try to keep your voice level, but it's hard when your entire body feels like it's shaking. “Th-Thank you, my prince,” you croak, your voice as quiet as can be.

Prince Aegon stands so close, you feel his body brush yours. You try not to tremble, but it's a useless task. His eyes bore into the side of your face, and you feel the heat of his gaze devouring the rest of you.

“So pretty, I just want to…steal you away.” He steps closer, his lips right by your ear as he whispers in a low voice, “Would you like that? For me to steal you away from here?” You squeeze your eyes shut, attempting to remain calm. “We could do anything, just the two of us.”

You swallow thickly, plastering a wobbly smile on your face. “I'm sure it would be…a lovely opportunity my prince, but..” You open your eyes again and take the smallest step away, turning slowly toward him. He steps even closer, hardly a foot away now. “But, um, I have to stay here with my friends… They'll be missing me if I go.”

Foolishly hoping to the gods that they hear your plea, you're met with the sight of his dark gaze. Your breath hitches as you take a step back. He pursues, shrugging lightly as he tilts his head.

“Or I could order you,” he says. “If I say you must go, then they cannot argue. I am the prince, after all.” He smirks, lifting his hand to touch your cheek. You flinch, but it only makes him chuckle. “Would you like me to order you, pretty girl? To take that burden off your shoulders?”

The way he says it… “pretty girl”. It makes your skin crawl. You wish you'd just gone and danced, or never shown up at all.

Your mouth opens, but words are very hard to find as you struggle to speak. “I…”

You can't refuse him. You can't send him away and tell him that the thought of his hands on you makes you want to vomit. You could be punished, killed. There's no version of this where you come out safely.

His gaze burns into your skin. His hand raises to pinch your chin, and his thumb ghosts over your bottom lip. As you struggle to find an answer, to find a way out of this very dangerous situation, Aegon feels another gaze upon his own skin.

He turns his head, his eyes searching for the object of his sudden unease.

A frown overtakes his lips as his glare locks onto another. For a moment, he keeps staring. It's a silent battle of wits, a battle of will. He should be able to have whatever he wants. He's the fucking Targaryen prince, and what he wants is your bound-to-be-virgin cunt wrapped around his cock. He is owed whatever he desires.

But this icy glare is one he cannot withstand. With a huff, he drops his hand from your face. You hold your breath, glancing up carefully to see what has changed.

“But alas,” he mumbles. “It seems my mother is calling me.”

The shock is written all over your face, a mix of fear and surprise that has his desire for you growing in his belly. He smirks again, taking one last step into whatever space you had left as he takes your hand.

You purse your lips as he eyes bore into yours. Prince Aegon raises your knuckles to his face, slotting his nose over them as he inhales your sweet scent. You shudder as he presses his lips to the round bumps of your hand. You jump when he nips them.

His eyes peek up at you as he grins. “I will be seeing you.” He drops your hand.

You swallow thickly as he takes a couple steps back. Tentatively taking your skirts in your hands, you curtsy. “My prince.”

He hums, and then he's gone. You stare after him, letting out a relieved breath as you come back to your senses. You bend slowly, retrieving your cup from the ground as you try to catch your breath.

When you rise to your feet, your gaze is caught by that of the prince across the field from you. He flickers at the other side of the bonfire, his gaze just as hot and just as burning as the fire itself.

He stands there and stares at you a few seconds more. Then, just like his brother, he disappears into the night.

You're left standing there, frightened to the very base of your being.

~

Quite frankly, you despise the training grounds.

It's dirty and full of spectators eager to drink in the sight of sparring princes. It even rained earlier that night, so you are left to stand in the filthy mud, holding a tray of water in your hands and waiting for the imminent end of this session.

They always train so early. Sure, you would have been awake either way, but your sleepiness mixed with the anxiety of the princes (mostly Prince Aegon) is not a good mix.

He keeps looking at you.

Prince Aegon's eyes follow you when he's not on an active attack. You do your best to keep your eyes on the wine, hoping it would keep his gaze from you. But it's hard to do so when the lingering heat of his watchful eye burns you from out to in.

You can't tell if you're grateful or not for Prince Aemond's seriosity in his training. On one hand, his hard focus on his opponent means he's not watching you. But on the other…that means Prince Aegon is not too inclined to keep his eyes forward.

You feel your arms growing tired the longer you stand there. With a sigh, you turn toward a table behind you, setting the tray down to offer your arms reprieve. You linger for a moment, closing your eyes to breathe before switching out the two pitchers of water to seem busy.

When you turn again, you nearly drop the tray onto the ground. The smallest yelp erupts from your throat as you're met with Prince Aegon's dark stare.

“Forgive me, my prince,” you nearly stutter.

He hums, grinning lightly. “That's alright.”

You duck your head a little, balancing the tray in one hand and refilling his cup with the other. You pass it carefully to him.

“Many thanks.”

You give a short nod. “You're welcome, prince.”

He watches you over the top of his cup as he takes generous sips. He never looks away. It’s awful, being forced to see. You look away from his intense eyes, finding it increasingly difficult to do what he wants. But this works for him either way. He loves to see you cower…

Prince Aegon sets the cup back on the tray. Not anticipating the action, your weak grasp tilts and sends the tray askew. The cup tips off the side, and your eyes widen in panic as you watch it spill its contents all over the front of his gear.

A terrible gasp rips from your throat at the sight of it, Prince Aegon's gear drenched in water, his cup on the muddy ground, you standing there unable to figure out what to do other than grovel at his feet.

The words stumble uncontrollably from your lips, drenched in utter terror at his response. “Oh, gods! I am so sorry. That was an accident. I didn't mean to–!”

But Prince Aegon is not angry. In fact, he's amused. He chuckles to silence you. “Come now, pretty girl. No need for that.”

You stare up at him, your eyes clouded by unshed tears invoked by such sudden fear. He takes a step closer, in permanent violation of the space you have to your person. His voice is a low murmur when he speaks. “You and I can sort this out. Just the two of us… in my chambers… tonight.” He tilts his head. “What do you say?”

You freeze, staring wide-eyed at the prince as you struggle to find a way to get out of this. You can't refuse him, you can't. But he isn't going to let you go. How are you meant to shed this man from your life? He has implemented himself and ensured there was no way to escape him, not without force.

Your mouth drops open but no words come out. But, as it seems to be like clockwork, temporary salvation settles over you.

“My prince!”

You both turn your head, laying eyes on Ser Criston Cole as he holds onto Prince Aegon’s training sword. He offers it to him. “Leave the poor girl alone, and come fight your brother.”

Prince Aegon rolls his eyes, swatting a dismissive hand at his knight as he turns back to you. His smirk returns, if only for a moment. “Will I see you again?” he wonders.

“Prince Aegon!” He grunts. “Leisure is the death of men.”

“I’m coming!”

He looks back at you, setting his frustration to the side for just a moment. You’re always interrupted, there’s always something requiring attention. But not tonight. No, tonight…he would have what he wants.

He tears his gaze away to stalk back toward his knight and his brother. Ser Criston hands him his sword. Your eyes shift, and you find Prince Aemond…just as you always seem to do.

He watches you—just for a single second. A single second that always seems to last so much longer. He takes you in before blinking away, as though he’d never laid his eye on you to begin with.

You duck your head and try to forget the whole thing.

You duck your head and pray to the gods that Prince Aegon will forget the whole thing…

~

“Girl.”

You close your eyes as you stop walking, planting your feet in the middle of the dimly lit hall. You hold your breath as you turn, bowing your head and properly addressing the man with a curtsey, a basket of sheets in hand. “My prince.”

Prince Aegon’s eyes are nearly as dark as the night surrounding the castle. They always seem so…consuming. Consuming in a way that begs for breath in depleted lungs. Consuming in a way that cries out for an end to the constant burning of eternal fire. You stare at the floor.

He crosses the space between you before he speaks. “I didn’t see you in my chambers.” He stands right in front of you now, generous with the couple of feet he distances you with—though he does not have much of a choice with the way you hold the basket between you.

You had hoped you’d been sly with your avoidance the night before. After he was dressed for dinner, you made quick work of tidying his chambers before you went to attend with the other servants to watch over the small feast with the royals. When he returned to his rooms, there was nothing else for you to do… You had no other reason to return, so you did not.

You had hoped he’d missed it.

You clear your throat. “I’m sorry, my prince.”

“What kept you?” He steps forward, always stepping forward.

“My, um–” You struggle to come up with an answer quickly enough. “My-my errands. I was caught up with…with dinner.”

He tilts his head, not quite believing you as he continues his agonizingly slow advance. You find some solace, however, in his snail’s pace. It means every tiny little step you take away goes slightly unnoticed as you move to keep some distance between you and the prince.

“Well, dinner is over, and I require your assistance,” he insists. He raises his hands and takes the basket in his own hands. You try to keep your breath steady, but you’re hot with fear and anxiety. “I am your superior, am I not? You must obey me, and I say that you…” he takes your basket and drops it onto the ground without regard, walking farther past it, “...must come with me. We have a few wrongs we must right.”

When the cold feeling of the wall shoots up your spine, you’re frozen with fear. You nearly choke on your words, you struggle to even breathe correctly as you look around frantically for any sign of help. But it is so late, the castle is sleeping and any other servants awake at this time of night are preoccupied with their own tasks. Even if someone was awake, clouds cover every inch of the sky, and no one wishes to be bothered with the potential of rain in the open halls.

No one is going to help you.

“Forgive me, prince, but…” Your pulse is loud in your ear, you can hardly hear your words over it. You swallow thickly, speaking around your stutter, “I have… I have other duties.”

He’s getting frustrated now. He’s been denied you so many times now, too many times. You don’t expect him to display much patience anymore as he stands so close that your shoes touch and your arms are pinned to your chest. You can feel his breath on your face, thick with the permanent smell of wines and ales. His height over you is commanding, and you may just start crying before anything is done.

He speaks quietly, low. It’s a threat in the disguise of a reminder, and it hurts more than a slap to the face. “Your only duties, pretty girl, are to me.” He shakes his head gently. “I will not ask you again.”

His hands find your hips, and your whole body flinches at his touch. The smallest yelp drops from your mouth as you squeeze your eyes shut. You’re shaking. You don’t actually realize it—there’s too much happening at one time—but you’re shaking. It feeds Prince Aegon’s hunger.

You force your eyes open, force yourself to look him in the eye as you shake your head.

“I don’t want to.”

He tuts gently, shaking his head as a terrible grin takes his lips. He even chuckles, it’s the faintest sound but it’s a chuckle and it shakes your soul. “Such a pity,” he hums. He tilts his chin down and whispers. “You don’t have a choice.”

One of his hands raises to grasp your face, but you swat it away. Surprised by your protest, something flickers in his eyes, and you know you’ve made a mistake beyond hitting a prince. He tries again, faster this time, but you’re so full of adrenaline that you’re faster. You keep smacking his hands away, squirming vastly as you try to shed his hands from you. When he does not relent, for even a moment, pressing his hips into you just to pin you into the wall, you do the unspeakable.

You slap him. Your palm meets his cheek with a force that whips his head to the sound, and you pale as you watch his skin turn pink.

The most dangerous smirk crosses his lips. He finds great pleasure in your fight. It’s the first real fight you’ve put up since the beginning of his conquest. It’s exciting, it’s thrilling. His blood pumps at the prospect of a hunt.

He turns back to you slowly, watching you with eyes that have become so much darker. They’re like black tar, an oozing kind of look that melds into your skin and leaves you feeling like you’re going to die. Maybe you will.

His hands grab you so tightly that you can’t possibly move him away. You fight anyway, flailing your arms and legs and trying to call out for anyone to help. You know your sounds are echoing, you can hear your shouts bouncing off the walls and filling the night… But part of you knows that no one will come to help.

Even if they can hear you past the thick walls, no one will come to help you.

Because he’s the prince, and you are just a servant girl. What are you to keeping their lives?

Prince Aegon wrestles you to the ground and lays you on your back, despite your protests, despite your resistance. He forces you to the ground, takes your wrists in his hands, laughs when the tears spill. You argue for him to stop, to let you go, to leave you be. You hope and pray and beg for him to listen. You curse the gods for their cruelty—you curse the Mother for her lies.

He gathers your wrists to one hand, and you think you’ll be sick when his hand gropes your breast so roughly that it hurts. “I knew you would be fun, pretty girl.” He laughs, high off the thrill. “I’ve waited so long for this, it’s only fitting we make it last–”

A harsh grunt leaves his throat when your foot finds purchase at his leg. Using all the strength you have, you manage to land a kick. His hands loosen considerably, enough for you to yank yourself from his hold. Just to give yourself more time, you kick again. This time, you manage to find purchase at his side. A string of curses falls from his lips, but you don’t have time to listen to them.

As soon as you’re free, you stand to your feet and bolt down the hall. You don’t know if you’ve ever been faster, the way you speed through the corridors. Your heart thunders in your ears, your tears tickle your face, your breath scratches your throat. But you can hear him behind you.

It’s a stalking sound. That kind of sound that tells you he doesn’t waste strength trying to run after you. His pursuit is taunting, it’s haunting. It forces more sobs from you, and it makes it hard to see past the tears gathering in your eyes. You look behind yourself. It feels like he’s right there–

You run into something solid. Knocked to the ground, you grunt at the pain that blooms along your body at the fall. You open your eyes and look up to see what’s stopped your escape, and you feel a sudden wave of relief. It’s not a gaze that especially calms your nerves, but it’s enough to know that you might actually have a chance at safety.

“Prince Aemond!” you cry, moving to kneel before him as you duck your head. You stumble over your words, it’s so hard to speak past the fear, the pain in your throat, all of it. You do your best. “I-I’m sorry, you… Your brother, he’s chasing me and he-he’s trying to, to hurt me, and I–”

There’s no use in trying to speak coherently anymore. You break down into sobs, sobs full of broken rambles that are fueled by the emotions demolishing you. You look truly pathetic like this, you know you do—covered in tears, your lip wobbling, your chest heaving with desperate breaths.

Prince Aemond looks upon you, his face a mask of almost indifference. There’s a spark of something in his eyes that you can’t quite place. But, quite frankly, you don’t care. As long as he helps you. He’s been helping you all this time, surely he won’t turn his back now when you truly need him.

You don’t know what possesses you to grab his hand. You’re just glad he doesn’t seem upset when you do it. You hope he understands you when you beg, “Please don’t let him touch me, please!”

His taunting footsteps re-enter your mind as they come to a stop somewhere behind you. Your blood runs cold when you hear him.

“Brother.”

You startle, genuinely yelping when you scramble to your feet and rush to stand behind Prince Aemond, putting him between you and his brother and using him as your shield. To your sweet relief, the prince puts his hand out and holds your arm, keeping you behind him. Keeping you under his protection. You let out a shuddering sigh.

“Aegon,” he returns, his voice calm and measured. His gaze is unyielding, as it always is. You just hope that, as it always is, Prince Aegon is no match for it. “Are you tormenting this poor girl again?”

He laughs. “Tormenting? Heavens no. We’re just having a bit of fun,” his gaze shifts to you, “aren’t we?”

You press yourself more into Prince Aemond, hiding as best you can.

Prince Aegon can’t decide if he’s amused or annoyed. “And even if I was, the little thing put her hands on me.” He raises his brows. “These things can’t go unpunished.”

It’s silent for a moment as Prince Aemond contemplates something. He glances over his shoulder, not quite looking at you as he questions. “Is this true?”

You swallow thickly. You can’t lie. It’s the prince’s word against yours, and you did put your hands on him… If anyone finds out, you could—would be killed. Your voice wavers as you confess timidly. “Yes, my prince.”

Prince Aegon smiles. “You see? She admits it.” He takes a step forward. “Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

Terror grips you. “No–!”

“Step away, brother.”

He stops in his tracks, staring at his brother with a furrowed brow. Unimpressed by his jest, he gives an empty laugh. “Excuse me?”

Prince Aemond tilts his head, raising a brow. “I do not believe a stutter passed my lips.” His hand lands on the hilt of his blade, a warning. “I said step away.”

Prince Aegon’s lips curl in a sneer, but his eyes…his eyes hold a predatory gaze that make you feel like you’re already trapped in the beast’s maw. “She’s my servant girl. I can do as I please. Give her to me now.”

He remains unfazed. “I do not believe I will be doing that.”

“Get out of my fucking way, Aemond.” He advances, his eyes on you as he comes forward to take what is rightfully his. You begin to protest, scared sobs falling from your lips as you panic.

But Prince Aemond takes his own step forward, but his gaze is much harder, and his determination is much more dangerous. “Touch her and we shall both be half blind, brother.” His threat is level and true, and you feel yourself alighting with more fear at the sound of it. He tilts his head. “Now run along. I’m sure you’ve got a pillar to milk.”

Rage covers every inch of Prince Aegon’s face. He huffs as he shakes his head, moving to cover the distance. “You fucking–”

Everything seems to go completely still for a moment. The air is stagnant and all breath ceases when Prince Aemond raises his blade to his brother’s face, the sharpest end only inches from his blue eye.

But Prince Aemond remains unfazed. His gaze is piercing, his posture is strong. His voice is low and level.

“Do it.”

They stare at one another, another silent standoff. You’re still holding your breath.

Prince Aegon’s lips curl into a smirk. A chuckle slips past his lips as he takes a step back. He yields.

“Well played, brother.” He sucks on a tooth, turning his dark gaze to you as his eyes glitter with apparent amusement. You’d hoped you were turning out to be more trouble than you’re worth, but the only thing you’ve achieved tonight was sweetening the prize. “Don’t worry, pretty girl… I will be seeing you soon.”

He spares one last glance at his brother before turning on his heel and walking away. Prince Aemond relaxes a bit, letting his blade return to its holster as he sighs gently. When the other prince has fully retreated, he hums.

“Come with me.”

He turns and walks down the hall. It takes you a moment to catch up as the adrenaline begins, slowly, to fade, replacing itself with an immense amount of exhaustion. You turn and walk after him, wiping your face to try to rid yourself of the tears that had begun to dry.

You follow him down the winding corridors until you eventually end up on the familiar path of his bedchambers. When you arrive, he opens the doors without a word. It’s implied that you follow, so you do. He closes the doors behind you, and you slowly come to stand in the room, feeling so awkward here. It’s so late, surely you need to leave and try to retire for the night, put this whole thing behind you for a few hours.

Your voice is timid, your fingers hesitant as you rub at your face. “Are you sure I should be here?”

The prince walks past you, trailing to a table where a bowl of now-cold water and a cloth sit. “You can be wherever I say you can be,” he says dismissively. As he wets the cloth, he beckons you closer. You have to urge your legs to move, dragging yourself over to sit in the chair he is gesturing for you to take. You don’t look at him, anxiety still whispering in your bones.

“Are you hurt?” he asks as he tilts your chin up, beginning to carefully wipe away the tears that have covered your face.

It feels strange, but…nice. It’s nice to be taken care of. You’re too drained and too quieted to wonder why you’re being taken care of. You just want to calm down.

“No,” you mumble, sighing to calm your nerves. “Thank you.”

He continues to dab at your face. “Don’t thank me yet.”

You furrow your brows, looking up as you lock eyes. He’s…sort of pretty. You hadn’t really had the time or the mind to notice it before, but you don’t intend to make a habit of noticing. Once this night is over, you intend to forget it all.

“Beg pardon?” you wonder.

He stops what he’s doing, setting the cloth back in its bowl. Looking back at you, he tilts his head. His voice does not change. “You laid your hands on the prince.”

Just like that, the fear and anxiety return. You’re already tongue-tied as you try to defend yourself. “He was trying to hurt me–”

“It does not matter,” he says, as though it means nothing. And it does. He shrugs as he continues to watch you. “My brother has a reputation but he is the prince, and you are just a girl.” He hooks his knuckle under your chin, tilting your head to look up at him a little more. “Who do you think they will believe?”

Your breath picks up once more, a heavy thing in your chest that makes you feel like you may faint. You wet your lips, shaking your head. “It was an accident. I was scared, a-and I panicked. I–”

“It is not I who questions your words,” he hums. “It will be the public’s when they learn you tried to seduce the prince.”

Your heart pounds so heavily in your chest. You swear you can hear each thump against your ribs. “But I didn’t–” You pause at the look on his face. It is not him who questions your words. You swallow thickly, looking down at your hands clasped in your lap as you try to gather your thoughts. Your voice is so quiet when you speak again, weak with your defeat. “What am I to do?”

He seems pleased that you have begun to ask the right questions. He pulls away from you, removing his holster from around his waist to set his weapons down. “Even if he says nothing, you are still his servant, and I cannot be there at every turn to help you.” He looks at you once more, his eye unwavering. “One way or another, he will have his way with you… and no one will care when they hear your screams down the hall.”

You duck your head, fiddling with your hands as these terrible feelings eat away at you. But then he speaks again, carrying words that have you glued to his every sound. “There is a way, of course, that I can help you.”

You sigh. “I’ll do anything.”

The slightest smirk curves his lips. He walks back toward you, his steps so slow, so measured. Every step he takes fills you with a strange kind of dread. His voice is so soft, the opposite of the fear-inducing sound of Prince Aegon’s.

“My brother will care less about you if you are…” he raises his hand to the top latch of his garb, undoing it slowly, “...already sullied.”

Your eyes widen as you watch him unlatch each metal piece with a clink, clink clink. A shivering heat courses through your veins, the kind of heat that has your body covered in gooseflesh. A million thoughts rush within your mind, but you haven’t the slightest clue what any of them are saying.

Had he been any other boy from in King’s Landing—a peasant from Flea Bottom, a servant in the Red Keep, a merchant from Cobbler’s Square—you would have watched with bated breath, accepted his proposal with a shy grin, fingers shaking only with the anticipation of a night of pleasure. Had he been anyone else, you might have considered sharing the night, knowing and accepting that you’d likely have to take his hand to avoid the shallow slanders of society.

But he is not a merchant from Cobbler’s Square, or a servant in the Red Keep, and he most certainly is not a peasant from Flea Bottom. He is Prince Aemond Targaryen, the son of Queen Alicent and King Viserys I, the rider of Vaghar, the second largest dragon in the world.

You cannot do this and come out unburnt.

Your throat is dry as you try to shake your head. “I-I can’t.” You stumble over your words uselessly. “I’m— You’re— We–”

He hums. “I can just tell them that you attacked the prince.” Fear strikes your head like a chord. “Of course, you would lose a hand…if not your life.”

A tear slips down your cheek to replace the old ones. “Please, my prince–”

“There’s only one way to solve this,” he says, walking toward you once more so that you’re forced to look up at him. He’s taller than Prince Aegon, and his gaze can be just as dark. “I can give you back to the beast, who will maul until he gets what he wants…” Your eyes close, trying to force the memory from your mind. He tilts his head and waits for you to look at him again.

“Or I can ruin you for him.” His proposal sends an unwanted shiver down your spine. You audibly sigh at his suggestion. “Then he shall no longer have interest in you.”

The gods have a strange sense of humor. Every time you suppose they’ve answered your prayers, they offer an alternative that you fight to determine better or worse. No win can ever simply be a win, no salvation can ever simply be salvation. It seems even now…that you’ve traded one beast for another. Now you’re forced to choose between the lesser of two evils.

Your throat is dry. You have to clear it in order to find words to speak, timid words that find a lot of difficulty in breeching your lips. You look up at him, your eyes wet.

“He won’t want me anymore?” You wipe at your eyes, trying to dry your constant tears. “You’ll…” You clear your throat. “You’ll protect me?”

Prince Aemond watches you closely, his gaze betraying no hesitance. He raises a hand to your cheek, brushing his thumb under your eye line to rid yourself of your tears. “You have my word,” he nearly whispers.

You look down at your hands, steeling your nerves as you squeeze your eyes shut.

It’s one night. Then you shall be free from the torment of the eldest Targaryen prince. Your troubles shall be put in the past. Just one night…then all will be well.

You just pray this beast is kinder.

You slowly rise to your feet, your fingers almost lethargic in their movements as you hold your breath. He's taller than his brother, just by an inch or two. It's enough that you have to crane your neck even more to look up at him. It has a strange effect on you, one that makes you even shier than you were two moments ago.

You sheepishly raise a hand to your shoulder, pushing your apron off until your arms are free from it. Letting your breath free, you release your arm from the sleeve next. It takes forever, it feels like, to shed yourself of your clothes. But when you’re bare before him, you can’t help but to cover yourself with your arms, trying to preserve what little ounce of dignity you have left.

But there’s no use in it now. He raises hand, slowly so as not to scare you, and touches your waist. You nearly shudder at the feeling, so foreign to you. He drinks in the sight of you, feasting on your body in gentle praise. You drop your arms, allowing him to see all of you.

“My brother was right about one thing,” he hums, licking his bottom lip between his teeth. “You are a pretty girl.”

It feels so different when he says it. It shouldn’t. His actions are almost as selfish as his brother’s, though at least you gain something from your nearing fate. But those words on his lips, they caress you. They send shivers down your spine and offer the smallest salve to the raging nerves preventing you from being calm.

You struggle to find your voice, not yet able to meet his eyes.

“I…” you sigh in an attempt to steady your nerves. “I am at your…your full service, my prince.”

One of his hands continues to rest at your hip, holding you close as his palm strokes your skin. You sigh, your eyes fluttering shut. It just…it feels so nice. It’s so hard to resist a touch as nice as this one. His other hand reaches up to cup your cheek, and you’re forced to open your eyes to meet his gaze.

He brushes the apple of your cheek, staring into your eyes. His words have your blood rushing, your breath becoming thin. “Have you ever had your lips around a cock before?”

Your eyes flutter at the question as you shake your head. “N-No.”

“Someone’s mouth on your cunt?”

Your throat is so dry, you keep having to swallow. “No, my prince.”

He hums. You can’t tell if he sounds pleased or not. “I suppose you’ve done nothing.”

“Never.”

His thumb strokes your cheek again. You lean absently into his touch. “That’s alright,” he says. He lets go of you to shrug the top layer of his clothes off, leaving him in his tunic and trousers. It’s already such a forbidden sight, heat rushes to your cheeks at a glimpse of it—as though you were not already standing bare before him. “I shall teach you.”

When his lips meet yours, you gasp against his mouth as your head begins to spin. You’re so startled by the sudden movement, it takes you a moment to actually realize what’s happened, let alone for you to gather the sense to kiss him back. His hand wraps around the back of your head to bring you closer, and a whining sound comes out of you when you feel his tongue slipping into your mouth.

This whole thing is so foreign to you, so forbidden and exciting and terrifying. Your breath shudders against his lips, and he feeds off your apprehension. He steps forward into you, and you nearly stumble back in an effort to keep up. You’re forced to stop your backpedal when the hard wood of the table digs roughly into your back.

Your stomach churns with a feeling unfamiliar to you, and you lean into it because you have nowhere else to lean. Aemond’s hands hold you tightly, his lips never relent as they suckle around yours. The tingling in your body has become so strong, your legs feel like they’re trembling, like your knees will give out any moment now.

When he pulls away from you, your breaths mingle in the short amount of space between you. They’re thick with whatever it is you’re feeling, this all-consuming lust that leaves you dizzy and wanting. You’re still so close, your lips brush against one another in a silent, teasing chase.

And you know you’ve passed the point of no return when you capture his lips once again, sighing into his mouth and delving into the desire driving you. You’re losing breath and your legs are becoming less and less capable of keeping you up, but you don’t care. You just need to keep tasting him, his lips, his tongue.

You reach for his tunic, pulling the fabric from his trousers and slipping your hands underneath it to feel the strength in his belly. He’s soft, smooth, but you can feel his muscles flexing against your touch. Aemond is the one who pulls away, panting heavily as he watches you. A smirk curves his lips and leaves you weak. You watch him take a small step back, lifting his shirt over his head and discarding it carelessly on the floor. You’re drunk on the sight of him, your lashes fluttering as you drive your teeth into your bottom lip.

When he pulls at his belt, you don’t know what to do. You just stand there, watching his deft hands as they begin to unbuckle it, pulling it from its proper place with a grand sweep. It drops heavily to the floor, and his trousers soon follow.

You hold your breath, staring at the erection between his legs. He’s long and flushed pink. You don’t know what to do, how to react. As you both stand naked before one another, the only thing you can really think to do is drink the other in.

Aemond interrupts your thoughts as he grabs your face again, smashing his lips against yours. You whine again, your tentative hands grazing his sides with a hesitant appreciation. He keeps kissing you as he moves, and you’re too distracted with the way his mouth feels against yours to do much else but stumble after him.

You’re forced to part when he sits down, his hands falling to your hips as he grips them tightly. “Get on your knees for me, pretty girl.”

The words wash over you with a shudder. You know that saying that is a show of power, a flaunt. He stole you from his tyrannical brother, and now you fall apart at the sound of the same name he’d been calling you. With no choice but to obey—both from obligation and a crumbling will—you do as he says as you slowly sink down to your knees.

You stare up at him, your eyes glittering, your lips parted. Aemond takes a moment, admiring the view before him with a sigh and the shake of his head. He thinks you look simply…perfect like this, awaiting his instruction with such an innocence about you.

“I want you to lick it,” he says simply.

You flush, feeling the heat burning in your face, feeling your core pulsing with a sudden desire. Your lips open and close, trying to figure out how to respond. You don’t know how.

Aemond wraps a hand around the back of your head, his fingers weaving their way through your hair. Slowly, he pulls you in until your nose nudges his cock. You sigh, the warm breath fanning over him and making him twitch. Swallowing thickly, you steel your nerves as you timidly let your tongue slip past your lips. Closing your eyes, you do as you’re told and you lick it.

He has an interesting taste, a salty kind filled with a heady scent that invades your senses. Your mind is clouded by lust, your fingers tremble. He closes his eye as he sighs. “Good, just like that. Do it again.”

You lean into the gentle praise, becoming a little braver as you continue to lave your tongue along the underside of his cock. It’s not hard to become addicted to it, his taste, his smell. It’s like you’ve been doused in a potion, one that intoxicates you with the strong scent of him.

You let his sighs guide you as your tongue presses against the vein running up his solid cock. He’s hard, and it’s daunting that he feels so stone-like. You take the initiative as you wrap your lips around the head of his cock, suckling gently around it as you swirl your tongue along the slit.

Aemond’s lips part, and he opens his eye to look at you again. “Good,” he says. “Very good. Suck harder.”

You do, rewarded with a gentle grunt that sends shivers all throughout your body. His hand flexes in your hair, and your breath hitches slightly when he pushes you an inch further onto his cock. Adjusting your mouth, you move to take him deeper, sucking him down however you can. Then, just as he’d pushed you down, he guides you back up. Following his lead, you move on your own, moving up and down and up down until you’ve built a steady rhythm.

“Good girl,” he breathes, this kind of hum that is far more rewarding than you would have thought. You follow his sounds, bobbing your head up and down his shaft with a growing enthusiasm. “Give me your hand.” He holds out his own for yours to take, and you do, pulling off of him with a sigh.

He guides your hand to his cock, wrapping your fingers around the base of him. His hand consumes yours as he covers it, squeezing it tight until a groan falls from his lips. He moves it up and down, setting your rhythm, up and down, just like before, up and down.

His hand guides you back down and you take him back into your mouth. You hear the faintest “fuck” breach his lips, and a light feeling floods your system. You must be doing it right. Another “good girl” falls from his lips, and you melt.

You build up some speed, squeezing hard and sucking harder to give him the pleasure he needs. Your jaw and your neck aches, but you’re too caught up in the way his moans sound to care. Your throat catches on a gag when you go too deep, and you gasp on your way up, pausing for a moment to adjust before you take him again.

You feel Aemond’s hips beginning to twitch, rising off the seat a bit as he seeks the warmth of your mouth. When they buck up into you, forcing a gag to erupt out of you, your other hand shoots up to hold him still, nearly panicking when he does. “Yes,” he huffs. “You’re doing so well, pretty girl.”

A whimper leaves your throat, and his breath hitches. As your hand jerks at his cock, he grips your hair and pulls you off of him with a grunt. Your tongue lolls from your mouth, and you have to catch your breath as fresh invades your lungs. His next curse is much clearer as his chest rises and falls with his desire.

“Fuck,” he huffs. His gaze finds you, and he smirks at the sight of your wet eyes and plump lips. “Very good, my sweet thing.”

One of his hands wraps around your throat, and you gasp before his lips find yours again. You lean into it, loving the way his mouth slots so perfectly with yours. He grabs a hold of you as he wills you to stand with him. “My prince,” you sigh between kisses, drinking the lust he pushes down your throat.

You yelp when he dips down and lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he walks away with you. You hold on tightly to him, finding it so difficult to pull away from his lips. “Aemond,” he corrects you, his teeth closing around your bottom lip. You lick it, pleasantly startled by it.

The smallest scream passes your lips when Aemond suddenly drops you onto his bed. He chases after you, bending over it just to continue his attack of your lips. You cradle his face in your hands, indulging in this forbidden pleasure. He breaks from your lips, his mouth finding your neck as he kisses and licks and sucks and bites at the skin. You gasp at the feeling, your mind hazy with it.

His hands roam your skin, his dull nails grazing it with a certain longing. His lips trail down, down, down. He kisses the lowest part of your belly, lifts your leg as he moves to kiss your knee. He watches you as he does it. He doesn’t say a word, he just stares into your eyes with every peck against your flesh.

Uncontrollable shudders rush through you as his lips press against the inside of your thigh, his tongue darting to lick, his teeth nipping. He goes farther and farther, closer and closer. You don’t think you’ll be able to handle it when he reaches the prize he seeks.

Your words come out as a peep. “My prince.”

He pauses at the very center of your being, his mouth so close that his breath ghosts over you, teasing you. He lingers there, his hands gripping the underside of your thighs. “Aemond.”

His voice is low, almost dangerous. You feel too light and floaty to feel the real danger that is this man. You’re in no position to refuse as you take in a shallow breath. “Aemond,” you whisper.

Then he smirks. It’s a devilish thing that leaves you burning.

You gasp when he dives between your legs, his hot mouth meeting your hot cunt as he laps and sucks at your folds. Your back arches off the bed, and you’re overcome with this consuming feeling that leaves you wanting more, more, more. You whimper, stumbling over your incoherent words. “F-Fuck, Aemond.”

He’s hungry for you, starving as he devours you. It’s hot and heavy, and you’re left absolutely shaking in his grasp. His arms wrap around your thighs, pulling you close and keeping you down.

Your hands fly to his hair, gripping his silver locks and holding them tight to find something to ground you. You can't breathe, you can't think. It's all white noise, the sounds of wet on wet, his heavy breaths, your weak moans. It's utterly intoxicating. You don't think you'll survive.

“Oh, g-gods,” you gasp. “I c-can't. It's so… fuck, it's so good. Please don't stop!”

It’s like music to his ears. The highs of your moans, the lows of your grunts. It feeds his hunger, his pride, his desire. It writhes within him like the fire that writhes within his mighty dragon.

Aemond’s tongue licks and flicks at your clit, coaxing you closer and closer. As you tug at his hair, deep groans erupt from his throat. As your release nips at your heels, beckoning you, luring you toward that edge like a siren’s call, his name echoes off your tongue. He holds you down as you grind against his face, searching for more of him, a glutton for the pleasure he provides.

“Aemond,” you gasp, your body tensing as you get closer. “I’m so close. Please don’t stop–”

Your mouth drops open, your entire body suddenly alight with ecstasy as you reach that boiling point. White flashes behind your eyes as desperate shudders wreck you from the inside out. Your thighs tighten around his head, and his tongue never lets up as he continues to lap at your cunt. You gasp and moan and ride out your high like you’re afraid you’ll never feel it again.

He doesn't let up through your orgasm. He drinks it down, ever the starved man craving your honey. When the trembling has dulled down, and he thinks you can breathe again, Aemond sits up with a rather pleased look on his face. “You taste,” he hums, a large smirk covering his face as he licks his lip, “magnificent, pretty girl.” You melt at his praise.

When his finger teases the seam of your cunt, you look at him quickly, unsure of what you’re looking for. You whine when he presses his finger inside of you, pushing it in deep. The sensitivity matched with the slight stretch is maddening—and when he curls it, you lose your breath in your whimper.

You curse, not quite sure how to feel between your fresh release and his long finger seated so nicely within you. You cannot tell if you want to beg for more or ask him for a reprieve, if only for a moment. A moment to catch your breath, which is so frequently lost with this man.

But he’s far too happy to watch you tremble—and you do tremble. It’s hard not to when he plays your body like a player to a lyre. He thrusts his finger slowly in and out of you, content with the way you pant until he isn’t. As he adds a second finger, you clench your teeth and stifle a moan at the stretch. It’s a nice kind of stretch, it’s pleasant and warm but it drives you to madness.

He thrusts his fingers in and out of you, curling them against a spongy spot within you that arches your back in the same manner. The more he strokes you, the more you moan, and the faster he goes. His rhythm is quick and precise, and it's so blinding as it fills the air with the sounds of your moans, your squelching cunt, his eager breaths.

The pleasure swirls in your brain. It's the kind of pleasure that is just as much in your head as it is in your body, and you can hardly think past it. Bending down to meet you, his lips capture yours again. You moan into his mouth as they slide against each other. There's nothing tender about this kiss. There's never been anything tender about it. He's needy and primal, and it's the opposite of the composure this man holds as he walks about the castle with all the regality and elegance of a prince.

The way that you feel this pleasure is anything but elegant. You feel it with jerky limbs, with sharp gasps, with whining moans. You feel it with tugged hair and clasped thighs and clenched jaws. It's uncontrolled and incredibly indulgent. There's no restraint, as much as you try to keep yourself in check, he yanks these things from you and makes it impossible to be elegant.

“Such a good girl, you are,” he purrs, nipping at your earlobe. The praise goes straight to your core, straight to your pulsing clit. You're already so close, you feel the ebb and flow of a release pulling at you. “I can already imagine how perfect you'll feel around my cock.”

A whimper escapes you—a pathetic sound, really. He swallows it down like a sweet elixir, drunk on the taste, drunk on the feel. He could spend forever here, with his fingers shoved in your cunt and his mouth all over your body.

When he breaks away from your lips, he moves down your body and attacks your cunt, fingers still thrusting. You react immediately, rolling your hips against him as his tongue laps at your clit. You're so caught up in it that it takes no time at all for you to come again, this time all over his hand.

You shake as you shout, high-pitched whines and shallow breaths and blinded eyes. Your pussy clenches around his fingers, and he keeps coaxing the ends of your release from you even after you've settled.

When you go limp against the sheets of his bed, he pulls his hand out of you. You feel heavy, your eyes drooping and your chest still full of needy breath. You forget, for a moment, that you're not done. It's hard to keep up so fresh out of your virginity. You never thought you would lose it so thoroughly.

Aemond kisses your release from his fingers, humming at the taste of you with a growing appreciation. His hand wraps around his cock, and he groans. He's still so hard, and you wonder briefly if it hurts.

“Sit up, pretty girl,” he beckons, holding a hand out for you.

It takes a moment for your body to follow the order. When you do you grasp his hand as he helps you up. He wraps an arm around your waist, the other at his side as he pulls you in and kisses you with as much hunger as he began.

When he lets you go, he does so to move off the bed. You sit there, attempting to gather your thoughts. Everything is still so hazy, there's a slight confusion that is so difficult to gauge.

Aemond sits at the head of the bed, sitting back as he watches you for a moment. He seems to be giving you the moment you're needing. It doesn't last too long, though, because he reaches an arm out and wraps it around you to bring you to him, back to chest.

You can feel his cock pressing into your back as his lips brush the shell of your ear. A shudder runs down your spine.

“I am going to fuck you now,” he purrs in your ear. The smallest whimper escapes you, and his lips kick at the sound. “But before I do, I must tell you how much I've been craving you.”

You lean into him, no sense or care for the danger this situation puts you in. “I've been watching you.” A dull tingle sparks in your gut, arising in the tips of your fingers, of your ears. He was always watching you.

“You're such a lovely little thing.” He hums, “A sweet girl, a shy girl. No wonder my brother wants you so much. It's the only sensible thing he's ever done.”

He takes a deep breath in, his nose pressed into your hair as he does. With a sigh, he chuckles. “How lucky I am to have gotten to you first.” His hand flattens against your belly while the other strokes the inside of your thigh.

“You see, my brother…he would have ravished you.” The idea makes you cold, you have to force away the heat that pushes at your eyes. “But me…” you can feel his smirk against your ear as he whispers, “...I am going to ravage you.”

Your voice is a small murmur of a thing when you speak. You reach over your shoulder, your fingers finding his hair. “Please…” you whimper.

Aemond turns you around, lifting you up as he moves you to sit in his lap. His cock sits against your belly, and you lose breath just looking at him. You watch his face as his gaze covers you. His arms wrap tightly around your body, and when he kisses you, he has to move up to do it.

You cradle his head in your hands as you do, grinding your hips against him in your haste. He groans as you do, enjoying the way your pussy rubs against him. His strong hands wrap around your thighs, lifting you up again as he positions you over him.

When he eases you down, you whine into his mouth. But the intrusion doesn't stop as he presses deeper and deeper into you. Your thighs meet his lap, and you break the kiss to let out a heavy sigh at how far he sits within you.

You linger there, your mind hazy with the stretch as your body goes limp. It feels so good.

Aemond's hands flex on your thighs, and you moan when he presses you down, squishing your bodies together in an attempt to go deeper. “I can feel you clenching around me,” he huffs. “Do you want me, pretty girl? Do you want me to make you feel good?”

You roll your hips a little in his lap, your voice a permanent whine in your ear as you keep him close, your face buried in the crook of his neck. “Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, please fuck me, Aemond.”

He shifts his hands to grip your ass, and the moan that falls out of you is high and heavy. You hold him tighter, grinding down into his lap.

You fall into a steady rhythm soon enough—his hands guiding your rolling hips, your pitched moans, his strained breaths. Your thighs shake around him, it's so hard to keep it steady when you need more.

It drives you as you fuck yourself on his cock, searching even deeper for that pleasure, You're not used to the heat curling in your belly. It's white-hot, consuming. It makes you so hard to focus as it slowly begins to become all you know.

For a moment, you wonder if this is what it feels like to be a dragon. This overwhelming heat which makes a home inside of you. Hoarding, nesting, conquering. You wonder if this feeling is what makes the Targaryens what they are, rulers.

But then you remember. You remember who you are. You remember that dragons are fierce, and you could never even imagine being as fierce as even the smallest of the Targaryen beasts.

So you lose yourself in the pleasure until all you know is Aemond. His lips press against your skin as you ride him, his fingers digging into your skin as he licks and bites at your neck, your collarbone, your chest. When his lips wrap around your nipple, you're done for as you throw your head back. Pushing your chest closer to him, you bounce in his lap and indulge in this pleasure.

His moans vibrate within you. You're left gasping as his tongue digs into your nipple and sends electricity flowing through your veins. “Aemond, please,” you mewl. “Don't stop.” His tongue glides toward the valley of your breasts, and you arch your back into him when he claims your other nipple.

A sudden crack of thunder resembling a dragon's roar deafens you for a moment, and a startled gasp slips from you at the sound. You had not even realized it had been raining. If it weren't for the bliss clouding your mind, you would feel foolish for not hearing the rain sooner as it slaps against the windows of his chambers.

In your brief distraction, Aemond brings you in tight as he pushes you onto your back, and you yelp as you tighten your arms around him. His figure towers over you, and you hesitate for a moment as you stare into his eye.

He's pretty. It has an almost sobering effect on you. If you forget who and what he is, if you forget (for the moment) why you are here… you think that this is the man who you would allow to sweep you off your feet.

But he isn't, and he can't be. He is your prince and (for lack of better word) savior. You owe him a debt, which you will pay and move on.

So when his hips snap into you, you lose yourself all again to make all of this easier. Like the pouring rain outside, his sudden thrusts are quick and persistent. The sound of his cock sliding in and out of your dripping cunt matches that of the rain smacking against stone, against earth. You hold onto him, arms and legs, as he fucks you.

He holds you close, like he'll keel over if you disappear. His sounds, though deep and heavy, hold a certain desperation in them that transcends blind lust. As you moan in his ear and ramble nonsensically about how good he's making you feel, he buries his face in the crook of your neck and feasts at your throat.

Somehow, this position allows him to drive deeper within you. You're left gasping, seeing stars with every slap of his hips. One hand cradles the back of your head, tangled in your hair as you moan. The other grasps your hip and refuses to let go as he holds you still.

The rain outside carries on. It's more fitting than a silent night. The thunder rumbles and roars, just like the heat writhing within the both of you. “Do you like it, pretty girl?” he mutters in your ear, his breath thin and his voice low. “Do you like how I’m fucking you?”

You’re losing it, teetering on the edge of senseless bliss. There’s too much pleasure shooting in your body and nowhere to put it as you clench and shake and moan. “I can’t–” you stutter, wrapping your legs tighter around him. “Please, my prince, I can’t!”

“Do you want me to make you cum, pretty girl? Is that what you want?” His excitement and desperation mix in a heavy encouragement that has his hips thrusting rougher into your own. It feels so good for you to be able to think about what he’s asked. All you know is that he’s going to let you cum, and that’s all you want right now. You crave it, like the soil craves water, like your lungs crave air.

As you pull him tight within your embrace, you're driven by your need as you nod. “Yes, yes, yes, please.” You gasp at the roll of his hips. “I’ll do anything. Please give it to me.”

He loves hearing you say that. I’ll do anything. Part of him wonders just how far you would go. You’re already fucking him, the prince, in order to escape his brother, another prince. If he had his way—and it’s likely he will—you’ll find yourself in this position more than once following this encounter.

He just supposes you ought to be more careful to whom you speak those words.

“Beg for it,” he demands, his lips lazy against your skin. “Beg for me to keep fucking you. Beg for me to cum in you, to let you cum on my cock. Beg me to give you what you want, pretty girl.”

You’re too far gone to care, and your dignity has long since been shed. You’ve already sold your soul, you’ve already given up the virginity that’s meant to be reserved for a husband—were he ever to find his way to you. You have nothing left to lose but your life, and that has already been sold to the Targaryen reign.

So, as the thunder rumbles, you let the pleads fall. “Please, Aemond, let me cum,” you stutter. “Please cum inside of me. I need you.”

He’s losing control. It’s a confusing, conflicting feeling. He needs the control, he needs to feel it in his hands, especially as he takes you—something that was rightfully his when he decided you were. But you…oh, you just had to be so perfect, so obedient, so good. His control was slipping, and it was your fault, and part of him didn’t even care.

He held you still and he held you down as he fucked his cock into your squelching pussy and cricled his dept fingers over your aching clit. The sight of your tearing eyes as your foreheads pressed together was addicting.

You are the first to cum. The thunder outside of his window is loud, a terrible rumble that almost silences your desperate moans, the sobbing breaths that fall from your lips as you see white. The pleasure overcomes you like the pouring rain that drowns the ground in its consuming cover. You hold him tight, too tight perhaps. But there’s not enough sense in your mind to care.

You clench so tightly around his cock, he doesn’t understand how he was supposed to resist. With a few powerful thrusts, he spills inside of you with a low groan that sounds like a roar with the way it is drowned by the raging crack of thunder that deafens you both. Your cunt swallows his cock and his cum down, milking every last drop as he fucks it into you in deep, short thrusts.

You shake and tremble, still so caught on the ride that is the orgasm still ripping through your body. Aemond’s teeth graze the skin of your throat as his breath fans over your skin.

It takes a long time for either of you to come down. Tremors glide through your muscles as you lay on your back, your limbs very slowly loosening from around him as you lay limply on the bed. Your breaths mingle, an exchange of sobering lust which turns to solemn clarity for you and satiated hunger for him. As his gaze catches your face, he hums as he leans in and captures your lips.

As wrong as you know it is—though you know you’ve passed the point of moral obligation—you can’t help but to kiss him back. This man has consumed you, body and mind and soul. He has a claim on you now that goes even deeper, somehow, than the cum he’s shoved into your womb. You don’t know what you’re going to do, but for now…you simply give in to the intoxication of his desire.

When he pulls out of you, it's with heavy sighs and weak whimpers. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you to sit up, leaning all the way back until he’s laying against the pillows at the top of the bed with you right at his side. Despite your better judgment, you seek his warmth as you rest your head on his chest. Aemond throws one arm over you and the other behind his head.

Neither of you look at one another. It’s an unspoken agreement, while you both think over things in your mind. No gazes really need to be exchanged.

You thought, like some great metaphor, that the rain would begin to slow now that the frenzy has faded. You thought that the thunder would settle and the harsh patter of rain at the window would begin distant flicks of water on glass. But as you lay there, wrapped in Aemond’s embrace, the storm refuses to cease.

It’s a while before you find your voice. When you do, it’s still so quiet, and now hoarse with its overuse throughout this dark night.

“Will…” you lick your lip, swallowing thickly with a sigh. “Will Prince Aegon truly leave me be now?”

Aemond doesn’t respond right away. As he stares at the ceiling, you feel his thumb begin to stroke slow circles into your shoulder. It remains quiet for a long time. “My brother does not care whether you have your virtue or not.” His words would have pulled a gasp from you, were you not subconsciously expecting them from coming from his mouth. “He would have raped you all the same.”

Still, despite your suspicions, despite your inhibitions, you sit up just enough to look at his face. Despite everything, remaining oblivious seems like an easier choice than facing what you already know: he lied to you, and you let him do it because one evil is easier than the other. “What?” you whisper, apprehension in your eyes as you watch him. He stares back at you, taking in the sight of your innocence. He could not have chosen better.

“But he shall not,” he says, a firmness in his soft voice that eases your worry. “He will not cross me, and I shall have you transferred to my chambers instead of his to keep my eye on you.” He takes your chin in his grasp, pulling you close. “I promise my protection, it is yours.” His lips hardly brush against yours, it is you who closes the distance (no matter how much you convince yourself that it is him). You sink into him with a gentle sigh.

“He will not touch you. Now…” his eyes are dark when he says it, “...you belong to me.”

You always knew this was the route. You knew, whether you would ever admit it to yourself or not, that he always meant to own you. And you let him. You let him do it, despite knowing what he is.

He is a Targaryen, and all Targaryens must be beasts in the end, some more than others.

Prince Aegon is a cruel beast, a monster truly favored by none… but Aemond is no less cruel. He is a subtler beast, the kind that lies in waiting, charms with smiles and soothing promises, the kind that bargains in the dark and sways the monsters of the daylight. The difference between the princes is not the difference between good and bad. You know this. You have known this. You always will know this.

But Prince Aemond’s cruelty is kind…and you’d rather be monstrously deceived than beaten bloody and bruised.

Ice and Fire taglist: @divinearchangel @alexxavicry @katsukis1wife @kmc1989 @the-nerdy-goddess @urmomsgirlfriend1 @ireallydontcareanymorebrooo @lover-of-books-and-tea @avalyaaa Tag yourself here...

[pitchsidestories]

met someone II Lena Oberdorf x Reader

masterlist I word count: 1452

a/n: dear readers, the poll chose Lena Oberdorf for this oneshot, we hope you're enjoying it. 💖💖

“Lena?”, Lea sounded surprised.

“Lea, this bar sucks!”, the dark-haired woman yelled into her phone

“But that’s there all the hot lesbians are according to Georgia.”, the blonde frowned.

“Georgia is wrong. The thing is full of straight women.”, she observed with growing frustration as a group of them was laughing hysterically about a joke one of the girls had made.

“Wait, but it’s a gay bar are they all celebrating their bachelorette parties?”, the forward asked confused.

“I don’t care what they do here but they’re all here. I think I’ll go home.”, Lena replied grumpily.

To lighten up her best friend’s terrible mood the blonde suggested. “Tomorrow at my place? I’ll cook a lot of hot chocolate and then we’ll watch a stupid romcom?”

“Didn’t you do that today already?”, the brunette teased the older player.

“Uhmm.”, Lea responded awkwardly.

“I know you.”, Lena stated chuckling.

“Well, I can do it two times in a row if you don’t tell our coach.”, she answered sheepishly.

“Okay, I won’t tell him if you don’t tell him that I’m out at a bar.”, the younger footballer offered grinning.

“We’ve a deal. See you tomorrow night!”, Lea chirmed.

“Bye.”, the brunette ended the phone call. Her dark eyes wandering one last time through her surroundings. The bar had its charm, she could admit that. It had a fading elegance to it like an old diva where you could tell that the woman once was a great beauty, something with a lot of history.

The barkeeper had mentioned to her that back in the 1980s Freddie Mercury was a reoccurring guest. Probably it was a bit more colourful back in the day.

For a second Lena tried to imagine how it would’ve looked like when the British rockstar was still alive but when her eyes locked with yours and all she could think about was you. Why hasn’t the football player noticed you before?

“Uhmm hi.”, the brunette greeted you nervously.

“Hey.”, you bit your lip.

“I’m Lena.”, the stranger introduced herself. Her smile was infectious, it immediately calmed you and made you feel less awkward than you’d usually feel in front of a person you just met.

You told her your name and when added. “You’re alone here too?  There’s a lot of groups tonight?”

Lonely hearts recognized each other you thought to yourself. Especially in a crowded room where people who came alone were rare.

“Yeah, I was about to go home. But then I saw you and I thought.. I could at least try and shoot my shot.”, Lena winked.

“That’s funny because I was about to leave too until I saw you.”, you confessed without hesitation in your voice.

A smile spread across Lenas face: “Oh really? Looks like this was meant to be.“

You chuckled in response, teasing her: “Are you a romantic, Lena?”

“Not really.“, she shook her head, her smile unwavering.

“So you don’t believe in love at the first sight?”, you asked.

She tilted her head slightly: “I believe in attraction at the first sight.“

You could barely tear your eyes away from that smirk, confident and cool.

“Me too.“

Lena pointed back towards the entrance of the bar and suggested: “Maybe we should stay for another drink?”

You nodded quickly: “Yes.“

Unsurprisingly, the bar was still crowded when the two of you went back inside. Lena led you right towards the counter to two empty bar stools. She had already ordered drinks while you sat down.

“Come on, it’s on me.“, she grinned as she pushed one of the glasses towards you.

You smiled politely at her: “Thank you.“

“You’re welcome.“

You sipped on your drink. Despite its dangerously clear look, you could barely taste the alcohol.

“So, what got you here tonight?”, you asked.

“I moved here a couple of months ago. I guess I’m just looking for someone…“, Lena admitted willingly.

It was more than understandable.

“A big city like Munich can get lonely…“, you mused, absentmindedly swirling the liquid in your glass.

Observing you, she raised an eyebrow: “Speaking from experience?”

“I do…“, you replied but quickly frowned at yourself. That sounded all wrong, you weren’t lonely. “I mean I love my friends…“

“But a romantic relationship is different. I get that.“, Lena completed your thought.

You paused for a moment, not because her interruption felt invasive, but because you felt an immediate connection.

“It is.“

“I feel the same way about that.“, Lena agreed.

You lifted your glass and clinked it against hers: “Cheers to the Lonely Hearts Club.“

Lena laughed: “Who knows. Maybe we’re at the right place at the right time and won’t be part of that club for much longer.“

Your heart skipped a beat, swelling with hope that this could be more than just a last-minute flirt at a bar but your forced it to calm down.

“Do you want to go for a walk after this?”, you asked, once your heart had started pumping blood to your brain again.

Lena checked the clock on her phone and nodded: “Sure.“

“Perfect.“

Both of your glasses emptied quickly.

“Ready to leave?”

“Yes, I’m ready.“, you said as you got up.

“Let’s go.“

Lena followed you outside where you both were met with the chilly breeze of the late night.

Side by side, you started walking against the cold. Streetlights illuminated the sidewalk just enough. You watched the shadows dance across Lenas face as you walked to nowhere in particular.

“Do you like living in the city so far?”

“I do. I expected the move to be harder but.. I like it.”, she admitted. You could tell that the young woman meant it. Immediately you asked yourself where Lena had lived before. Possibly somewhere smaller and calmer.

The brunette glanced at you with curiosity. “What about you? Have you lived here for a long time?”

“Yes, I moved here for university. It felt very freeing.”, a shy smile played on your lips as you spoke.

“I can see that.”, she observed in a friendly tone.

“In Munich you can be yourself.”, you added meaningfully.

A moment of realization hit the dark-haired woman unexpectedly. “You came out here, huh?”, Lena recognized.

“I did.”, you nodded. Pictures of the past were flashing behind your eyes. The small Bavarian village you grew up in, the catholic church being the centre of everyday life and gay people were basically non-existent. When you came to Munich it felt like you were able to breathe normally for the first time in forever.

“I think I understand why this city means so much to you.”, the brunette replied.

“You were out before moving?”, you asked her although it was more an observation than a question.

“Yes, for a while. I’m a football player so everyone is very open about it.”, Lena explained blushing.

“Ah a football player.”, you smiled at her mildly.

“Oh. You don’t sound impressed.”, she stated sounding almost a bit disappointed. But from the inside the midfielder felt relived too as sometimes the only thing women found interesting about her was her job.

The Lena off the pitch didn’t interest them at all, the one who loved her friends and family fearlessly, who liked to have fun, party a little and who wanted to take care of a dog again, but knew she wouldn’t have enough time without a partner to help her.

“No, I was just wondering why your arms are so impressive.”, you countered grinning, your fingers intertwined as you kept walking.

“You’re impressed by my arms? You should see my thighs.”, she smirked.

“Can’t see them through those trousers.”, you continued the banter making the woman you felt attracted to break into a warm and loud laughter.

“Sorry that joke went a bit far for a first meeting.”, Lena biting her full lips apologetically.

“A little but I’m already liking what I can see.”, you responded truthfully.

“Oh, you do?”, the football player raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, too much honesty?”, you chuckled.

“No, I like honesty.”, she replied earnestly.

“Same. So, what if I’d like to see you again?”, you questioned bravely, your heart pounding hard against your chest.

“How about tomorrow?” That ask sounded like music to both of your ears. Like this night might came to an end but it was only the beginning for you two.

The following day Lea exclaimed surprised. “Wait, you’re bringing a plus one to our movie night?!”

“Either that or I have to cancel. And you won’t forgive me for that.”, Lena said smiling.

“Okay, you can bring her.”, the striker sighed dramatically.

“You won’t regret it.”, the brunette promised wholeheartedly. Lena got butterflies in her stomach as she thought about you.

[bread-crum206]

A Game of Hearts

Chapter four: Beneath the Surface

Summary: Y/N’s father is a VIP for the games, he makes a deal with the Frontman that if he marries his only daughter that he will continue to sponsor the games. However, Y/N is not fond of this decision as she loathes the games and in turn, loathes the Frontman as well. Will she grow to love him? Will he let his walls down?

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Mornings were always the worst; waking up to the cold, sterile room with only the faintest trace of his presence lingering in the air. He was always gone before you even stirred, disappearing into the depths of the compound to handle whatever dark business his role demanded.

You had yet to share a meal together, much less have a conversation that didn’t feel forced or terse. The tension between you was thick like a string pulled taut, just waiting to snap. And yet, nothing changed.

But today felt different.

You heard a knock at the door, and your heart pounded as you made your way through the common room to the entrance.

You muttered under your breath, “Since when did he knock before coming in?” Convinced it was your husband on the other side, there was an unfamiliar stillness in the air, an almost tangible sense that something was on the verge of shifting.

You opened the door, coming face to face with a man in a pink suit. He wore a black mask with a large white square painted across the front, adding an air of mystery to his appearance.

“Mrs. Frontman,” he addressed you, handing over a small stack of neatly arranged white papers with elegant black lettering. “These are the documents you’re expected to review regarding the VIP room.” His voice was rough through the mask, betraying the fact that he clearly didn’t want to be the one to deliver them. He would much rather be doing something more interesting than talking to his boss’s wife.

You nodded politely. “Thank you.”

You watched as the man retreated down the vast hallway, his footsteps echoing in the distance.

The silence that followed felt heavy as your own footsteps echoed across the room, the sound unnervingly hollow as you crossed the threshold into the sitting room. This room has quickly become your favorite. It was the one space in the complex that felt almost warm. The view outside the large windows was serene, and the only color in the otherwise monochrome apartment came from the beautifully patterned brown and beige rug.

You sank into the cushioned chair by the small table in front of the windows and peeled the paperclip off the stack of documents. You glanced down at the first page.

VIP Room (Very Important People)

This document outlines the private quarters of the VIPs and the central room.You will decide the theme of the room. You will choose the furniture. You will ensure that all the needs of the VIPs are met.

You flipped to the next page, which listed the current contents of the room. From the light switch covers to the diamond chandelier, everything was detailed. The following pages were filled with names of contractors who could be hired to renovate the space, should you decide a change was necessary.

You frowned as you scanned the list. The gold-and-black jungle theme had always felt suffocating, and you especially hated the naked models that stood on display in the corners of the room, meant to entertain the twisted men seated in the center. You thought it was disgusting.

Your mind began to run wild with ideas. How could you change it without being ridiculed? You didn’t know if you could stomach another round of the garish gold accents on the walls.

You muttered aloud to the empty room, “Maybe I could add more plants… Or maybe introduce some new architectural elements…”

You sat at the table for a few hours, brainstorming, sketching out ideas on the margins of the pages. Eventually, you sighed and set the papers down, walking toward the window. The incoming storm was slowly swallowing the sun, and you stood there, staring out into the gathering dark. Even though it was still mid-day.

———————

You were still standing by the window, watching the rain cascade down the glass, when you heard the door creak open behind you.

At first, you thought it was your imagination—an echo from the distant hallways. But then you heard it again: the soft sound of boots on the polished floor.

You turned, and there he was, The Frontman, stepping into the room. His posture was rigid, but there was something different about him today: an edge to his movements, a subtle exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin.

“Didn’t expect you home so early,” you said, the words slipping out sharper than you had intended.

He met your gaze, but said nothing for a long moment. There was no greeting, no acknowledgment of your biting tone. He simply walked toward the side table, setting his mask down with deliberate precision.

“I had a few things to take care of,” he replied quietly.

You nodded, unwilling to let the silence stretch between you. “And?”

He hesitated, as if weighing how much to say. The stillness hung thick in the air, and you found yourself stepping toward him, closer than you’d planned.

With a huff, you muttered, “You don’t need to explain yourself.” You turned away, but there was a crack in your voice you hadn’t expected. “It’s none of my business.”

He was silent for a moment, before speaking, almost too softly to catch.

“It’s all your business now, whether you want it to be or not.”

Your breath hitched in your chest. His voice, raw and unguarded, struck you. You turned toward him, wanting to catch a glimpse of the vulnerability he’d let slip. But by the time you reached the entrance to the common room, it was gone. He had returned to his usual mask of stoic detachment, his eyes cold.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” you said, your voice low, harsh. “I didn’t ask to be part of this twisted… thing you’ve built.”

He locked eyes with you, and for the first time in a long while, you saw something in his gaze that wasn’t just resignation or indifference. There was an ache there, something deep, something that mirrored your own. But before you could latch onto it, he shut it down.

“I know,” he replied simply.

———————

Fourth chapter!! Get ready cause more are coming!!! :) Thank you for all the support 🫶

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[hitoshitoshi]

Now, Now, Kitten. Don't Bite. [Jealous!Sylus x Cat Hybrid!Reader]

Sylus stretched out his legs, one polished boot rested atop a stack of a crate someone had left lying around a warehouse. It was supposed to be a meeting—a show of force with some upstart gang that was trying to bite off more than they could chew in his sector. Idiots, the lot of them. Predictably, they were late and it left Sylus time to indulge in a rare moment of quiet. Well, almost quiet.

A soft thump from the rafters, followed by the low purr of a content Cat Hybrid!MC—you. broke the silence. Sylus didn't need to look to know who it was.

"Decided to grace us with your presence, kitten?" Sylus murmured, his gaze still fixed on the warehouse's entrance.

A shadow detached itself from the shadows above. Your paws padded gracefully towards Sylus, every movement was fluid and elegant, from the twitch of your tail to the way you lowered yourself onto the crate beside Sylus with a soft thud. Your head rubbed against Sylus' arm, your fur was surprisingly soft against his leather jacket.

"Impatient?" Sylus chuckled, feeling the familiar prickle of tiny teeth against his gloved fingers where they now rested on the armrest. "Now, now, kitten. Don't bite." Of course, these words were entirely just for show.

You tilted your head, studying Sylus with an intensity that would have been unnerving coming from anyone else. Then, with a playful flick of your tail, you struck. Precisely as Sylus knew you would. Tiny fangs grazed Sylus' skin, a sensation was more akin to a caress than a bite. It was a line they danced, a delicate push and pull, predator and... less predator.

But at the arrival of Luke and Kieran, they put a swift end to their little game. They bursted though the doors, their usual boisterous energy turned up to eleven, a stark contrast to the quiet intensity that clung to you like a second skin.

"Boss! We got something!" Luke practically vibrated with excitement, brandishing a brightly colored object.

"For the cat hybrid," Kieran added, tossing the object towards you. Sylus' lips twisted into a ftown. It was a teething toy shaped ike a fish, with rows of rubber bristles meant to soothe aching gums. Practical, maybe. But it grated him. You, with your untamed grace and predatory instincts, reduced to teething on a child's toy. He felt... Possessive. Annoyed.

Predictably, you got easily distracted, being as though you were a cat hybrid. You abandoned your perch on the crate, drawn to the novelty of the gift that Luke and Kieran got you. You batted the toy around with your cute littel paws. Those tiny and lethal teeth now gnawing on rubber instead of... well, Sylus.

Sylus watched, his gaze was dark as the feeling off quiet amusement was replaced by a simmering irritation he felt for some reason. He was Sylus, damn it. Fear was his currency, respect was his due. He didn't do these... domestic feelings. And yet, the sight of that damned toy irked him more than it should. "Seems like our little hunter has found a new plaything," Sylus drawled, his voice was deceptively mind, though the glint in his eyes held a warning. "Think the kitten likes it, Boss?" Luke, ever oblivious, beamed. Sylus rose from his crate, "We wouldn't want to deprive it nowm would we?" He scooped up the offending toy as if by accident, feeling it discreetly.

-

Later, after the meeting — Sylus found himself alone again in the quiet warehouse. You watched him with those unsettling eyes.

"Looking for something, kitten?" Sylus asked, a smirk played on his lips as he leaned against a nearby pillar, arms crossed.

You tilted your head, a low and questioning sound escaped your throat. You really wanted to bite something. You walked towards him, rubbing yourself against Sylus' legs, trying to get Sylus' attention because you felt super bad that you couldn't find the toy that Luke and Kieran gave you and you wanted Sylus' help to go find it.

Sylus allowed the contact, he even arched into it slightly. "Don't worry," he murmured, his gaze softened ever so slightly. "Some toys are simply too easily... misplaced."

Sylus could practicaly hear the purr of satisfaction rumbling in your chest as you nudged Sylus' hand, seeing that familiar, teasing bite. "Good kitten."

A/N: Damn, Sylus would 100% be that pathetic to be jealous of a toy.

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